Those of a certain age might remember the summer of 1963. Some would call it the last summer of innocence in reference to JFK's final months in office and a year before LBJ, his vice-president and successor, upped the ante in Vietnam. Top 40 radio fans listened to songs such as Sukiyaki and Surf City, It's My Party and Blue on Blue. The Birds, Dr. No and Gidget Goes to Rome played on the big screen. And joy riding really was a joy with gas selling for around thirty cents a gallon.
I was one of those joy riders that summer, cruising up and down various main drags of the city, on the hunt for...Do I need to state the obvious? As a college student going into sophomore year, some thought I was getting a little too old for this sort of thing, doing what I'd been doing since getting my driver's license. Perhaps they were right; however, I enjoyed it, the challenge and excitement of it. I'd take a buddy along and we'd cruise along one of the more popular strips, known simply as The Avenue, the generic name for so many of these strips around the country. More often than not, they were commercial strips where kids hung out on warm weekend nights to see and be seen, to be at the center of the action. "Oh baby, come on, let me take you where the action is," Freddy Cannon would sing two years later.
Up to that summer, we hadn't had much luck. Sometimes, we'd see two girls standing by the side of the road, and we'd chicken out. Other times, feeling bolder, we'd pull over, though not much happened even then. The furthest we got was taking the girls to a drive-in for snacks, a chat and, if we got really lucky, a light make-out. Then it was over and out. The few times I got a phone number, it was either bogus or the girl had a boyfriend. Or so she said.
By that summer, the routine was getting old and stale. Per The Beach Boys' lyric, I was "getting bugged driving up and down this same old strip." The thrill, such as it was, was gone, and by late summer, I sensed that there had to be an easier way to meet women, and therefore decided to bring my cruising days to an end. One more night cruising The Avenue and that would be it.
My usual cruising partner couldn't make it, so I decided to venture out alone on a Friday night in August, driving my latest cruising machine, a red and white, two-door, '60 Chevy Impala convertible. I figured it would be a short night, short enough for me to be home in time to catch Twilight Zone, if not Route 66 (I loved those cool Corvettes that Martin Milner and George Maharis tooled around in).
The Avenue, Benfield Boulevard, was the commercial hub of Benfield, a sleepy suburban area prior to World War Two. A post-war growth spurt required the powers that be to widen The Avenue so it could accommodate two lanes of traffic in both directions. A grass median, replete with wood benches, ran the length of the four-block commercial area. New businesses moved in, and old businesses spruced up their store fronts. Kids hung out and partied everywhere along this strip—on the sidewalk, the median and at the fast food joints, where you could smell the fries and burgers from the parking lot. Those with cool cars circled the glass and aluminum, pre-fab structures that debuted in California and were springing up like wildflowers in suburbia back East.
My "plan" was to ride up and the down the strip a few times, then perhaps pull into one of the drive-ins, slurp down a milkshake and then call it a night. A hunting mission this wasn't. More like a farewell to an era, a Goodbye to All That.
Good weather brought out more people, more convertibles also, and that balmy August night didn't disappoint. Horns honked. Engines roared. Kids shouted to be heard. Jaded or not, I still got a rush being a part of it. Guys standing on the median yelled to carloads of girls cruising by. The girls yelled back and kept on going. Hookups did happen here but they were relatively rare, more hype than reality. Most of these chicks grooved on the attention. For the guys, it was a case of window shopping: look but don't touch.
Keeping with my plan, I pulled into Champs, one of the more popular drive-ins. I could have ordered over the speaker but decided to go inside. I wore a tan Ban-Lon sports shirt over off-white jeans and sneakers sans socks. Stepping up to the counter to order a chocolate milkshake, I noticed her, the brunette, petite and cute, that stood a few feet away ordering a double order of burgers, fries and soda. She wore denim shorts, a blue sweatshirt scrawled with white letters that said MARYLAND and loafers. Curious about her large order, I said, "You must really be hungry."
She turned, shot me a deadpan expression. Then, after giving me the once over, she said, "I'm ordering for my girlfriend also." She smiled slightly, then looked away and stepped back from the counter. Even though she looked straight ahead, I had little doubt she caught me checking her out. So cute, so my kind of look, I thought, from her hair set in pigtails to her legs, smooth and tanned.
Moments later, milkshake in hand, I walked back to my car and noticed a white, late model Ford T-Bird convertible parked close to mine. A girl with curly blond hair sat alone in the passenger seat, and I couldn't help wonder if this was the brunette's girlfriend. Minutes later, I got my answer, watching her deliver the food. She glanced my way before sliding behind the wheel. If these were college girls, I thought, there's no way they could afford a car like that, the futuristic looking T-Bird. With its curved, sweeping front end and bullet taillights, it was the snazziest looking Bird since Ford's mid-fifties two-seater. "Nice car," I said, watching the girls dig into their meal.
"Not mine," the brunette said. "Dad lets me drive it. When I'm good." She grinned before chewing on one of her fries. I nodded while stirring my thick shake with a straw, then asked her to define what she meant by good. "If I keep my grades up and keep out of trouble," she said.
The blond and pigtails looked at each other and giggled. Pigtails then looked over at me and said, "Don't you have any friends? Not too many people come here on weekend nights alone."
She was teasing, I knew, but I decided to play it straight. "My friend couldn't make it."
"So you decided to come out here just for a milkshake?" Her grin was precious, worth the price of admission alone.
"Something like that. This strip's been one of my stomping grounds since I was sixteen. You're a Maryland student?"
She nodded. "I'm at Penn State. My name's Troy, by the way. So what's your story?"
"Troy, as in Troy Donahue?"
"As in Troy Donaldson. You think I look like Troy Donahue?" TD was a reigning male sex symbol at the time.
"The hair, maybe. Not as light but styled like his, the pompadour and low part. And your eyes have this intense kind of look, just like his." The blond nodded. "Anyway," the brunette continued, "I'm Doreen and this is Sally. So, what's my story...hmm...that would take all night. Maybe I should start with the latest chapter." Doreen said that she was supposed to meet some guy here, a guy she didn't know. "It's a blind date," she said. "Well, not exactly a date. This guy named Larry said he got my phone number from another guy, but couldn't remember his name. It sounded like so much BS to me, but he seemed nice on the phone and I was curious enough to agree to meet him here. He's supposed to show driving a blue Vette." Sally said she was riding shotgun for security reasons, "as backup" is the way she put it.
Doreen's story sounded familiar, one of those convoluted stories I'd heard many times before. Had my friend been here and had we come with "serious" intent, I might have felt frustrated. As is, I didn't care. Not that I'd reject the opportunity to take things further; it's just that I held no expectations for doing so. In fact, I planned to split once this Larry showed up.
Meanwhile, I seemed to be hitting it off with Doreen. She invited me to take a backseat in the T-Bird so we could talk without having to shout above the cacophonous roar. Sally let Doreen and I do most of the talking. Cute but slightly overweight, she appeared like a loyal friend, there when you needed her. Much of the discussion focused on college. Doreen majored in psychology, while economics was my major. We both listened to Top 40 radio (who didn't at that age?), hoped JFK would win in '64 and thought Hitchcock's The Birds was silly.
I was slurping down the rest of my shake when we saw a blue Vette pull in and then stop in front of the T-Bird. Not just any blue Vette but the first Stingray model, the one with the split rear window. Doreen said she had informed Larry what she'd be driving. Presumably, there he was, this guy with dark, greasy hair, grinning behind the wheel of what was perhaps the most coveted driving machine around these parts. "Doreen?" he yelled, pointing with his arm out the window.
She glanced at me, as if for approval, then waved. "Yeah, that's me. You must be Larry."
"It is I," he said, a proud grin plastered across his chubby face. "Be right with you."
Doreen didn't look too thrilled while Larry inched across the lot, hunting for a space. At least that was my impression of her first impression. Either way, it wasn't any of my business and I wished her good luck. Then she said, "Troy, not to impose, but can you stay a while longer? I'm really enjoying our chat and, truth to tell, I'm not too sure about this guy."
"I'd feel better about it, too," Sally said.
"But you have a date."
"Please..."
What the hell? I didn't need to watch Route 66 or Twilight Zone. "Sure, no problem."
The girls still had some of their meal left by the time Larry approached the car. Average height. Husky build. Olive complexion with a few pockmarks. Dark, greasy hair. His attire—green Italian knit, short-sleeve shirt over dark slacks and black pointy shoes—looked a bit out of place for a drive-in on a Friday night. Standing beside the driver's side, he said, "You've got company, I see." He frowned, obviously disappointed that Doreen wasn't alone.
She tried to be polite. "Well, Troy I just met and Sally's an old friend. You're welcome to join us if you'd like."
He shot me a challenging look, then squeezed next to me in the T-Bird's small backseat. When Doreen asked him again how he got her number, he stuck to his vague story about getting it from some guy at some party at somebody's house he didn't know. He concluded it with this: "Hey, what's the difference? I'm here, that's the main thing." Then he turned to me. "Hey, boss, you get her number the same way?" He cackled away, thought this was hilarious, even though none of us did. Larry finally realized this and continued. Again, addressing me, he said, "Good thing we got a foursome here. You can keep Sally company while I give Doreen a ride in my Vette. How bout it, Dory baby? Bet you never rode in a Vette before."
"Dory baby? Oh, brother, what corn." She rolled her eyes. "I think I'll pass. I hardly know you."
"Oh, come on, you'll love it. You can't expect to know me this way, with people around."
It seemed to me that Larry was one of those guys who couldn't take no for an answer, and I could see that Doreen's patience was wearing thin. Struggling to be polite, she said, "Sorry. I don't get into cars with strangers."
Larry wasn't amused and let her know it. "You must think I'm going to kidnap you or something. Listen, doll," he proclaimed, thumping his finger against his thick chest, "who do you think you're talking to? I'm Larry Smith, heir to more GM dealerships than any in the state, and one of the biggest GM dealerships in the whole country. Smith Motors. How do you think I got my Ray so soon? Dealers get first dibs on new models."
Sally rolled her eyes and turned to Doreen. "This guy sounds important, Dor. Aren't you impressed?"
Larry didn't take that well. "And what do you drive, blondie, if anything?"
"The name's Sally, and I don't drive anything at the moment. My hand-me-down Desoto's in the shop."
