"What Was I Thinking?"

It was time to make a move. I had graduated from Truck U. almost a year ago and had been living on the sleepy hamlet campus of my alma mater, but now it was time to gravitate to the big city and get a real job.

I had worked as a laborer [ of all things ] and was making a cool $2.25 an hour. I was "trying to find myself" and had endured a few rocky roads recently. My girl friend from high school, my true love, and I were experiencing some ups and downs before she dumped me for another guy. Also, I had had a bit too much peyote one night and my mind was fried. Break on through to the other side was more than I could handle. No apologies to Jim Morrison.

Even tho' in a funk, I loaded up old Betsy, my VW bug, and made my usual trek to the city which was an hour's drive, determined to find a career job. My car was a '69 which had replaced my '63 "hippie" bug, which had been our first family car. My mom wasn't trying to make a statement by driving one; we just didn't have any money. By purchasing number two, we had moved up in stature. Seems you could buy one back in the day for $1500. [ 63 model ] Laughable in today's world, but, then, houses cost only about $10,000. And gas was a quarter for ethyl; and candy bars/sodas were a nickel; blah blah blah.

I had enjoyed the freedom of living by myself since graduation. It was great. No curfews; no harping from the parents; and best of all, no studying. I had bypassed the big "V" { Vietnam ] by stumbling through higher education, and by garnering help from the honorouble Richard "Tricky" Nixon, who decided we'd had enough and raised the white flag in '74. The draft had become history, and I breathed a sigh of relief as I was classified "1-A," which meant your ass was ready to become a charter member of the Army.

I still have nightmares even today. Not about wading through rice paddies up to my waist in water or playing "Russian Roulette" with the Viet Cong, but having to take a final exam to pass a course. Normally the dream is in math or science, the latter being my worst subject. I had had Physical Geography, my sophomore year, and still don't have a clue what the fork it was about. Biology was another subject I was lost in. Duh, how do you adjust the microscope again, Teacher. And I admit flunking Math 100 as a freshman. Embarrassing cos I was good at it. I took it later and made an "A," taught by a Chinese Graduate Student who had no control over the class.

He would leave the room during the exams, and the dumb people [ like myself earlier ] would look on my paper for the answers. I didn't give a hoot-in hindsight it was wrong-but it made me feel good to be the smart guy in the class. The Math class I flunked, the star student was Miss Burnett, and I still recall Mr. Cliet asking her for the answers to the questions none of the rest of us could answer.

"Miss Burnett?"

"Pi r squared to the ninth power, Mr. Cliet"

"Nice job, as usual, Miss Burnett."

Still not sure how I flunked but I did. Shirley, it was the "conditioning exercises" required in P.E. that fall semester. And whoever named the class was "right on" with the terminology. It was grueling. My ass was forking tired after running around the gym; sweating through hundreds of jumping jacks; pushups; situps; and squat thrusts. After a quick shower, I had to attend the rest of my classes. My next class was a mile away. With wet hair and clothes I grabbed a bus or ran like hell so I wouldn't be late for my next session with higher education. My course load was a bit ambitious, too, for a youngster of 17. And I smoked. In hindsight, maybe I just didn't think things through. So what choice did a poor boy have? But to Party!

As freshmen, we were away from home for the first time. The drinking laws were relaxed in 1969 especially on campus. There was a place called "Bubbers" where you could look 14 and buy a twelve pack. Bubber didn't give a shit. He wanted all of us to feel at home in our new digs. Plus, he wanted to make money.

Once me and the gang, after guzzling a few brews one weekend, decided to visit Bubbers for an encore. There were 5 of us. Keith in the front seat. Harry, Steve, and Don in the back seat of my bug-the 63 version. I was new to driving under the influence, so after we made our purchases, I backed old Betsy up into a telephone pole. I jumped out of the car in the parking lot, when the boys in the back started laughing hysterically. They laughed even harder when they saw my bumper bent in half.

We headed back to our dorm rooms. I was enjoying the buzz from the alcohol but knew there would be hell to pay when explaining to my mom what had happened. She had little tolerance for mistakes. And especially expensive ones.

"What happened to your bumper, son?"

"Mom, I was minding my own business driving along Campus Blvd. when a crazed lunatic with bulging muscles jumped out of the bushes brandishing a chain. I slammed on Betsy's breaks to avoid splattering the guy's brains all over the place. I put old Betsy in first gear while he was hog-tying the bumper. I'm lucky to have escaped with my life, mom."

The memories flowed as me and old Betsy headed for the big city. We were looking for a new home and a new job. Little did we know our destiny was soon to be realized. Unfortunately.