This last weekend I helped some friends replace their deck. Gone are the days when one can just piece together a couple 2x4’s and some plywood – deck technology has evolved, and so have building codes. Since Bob actually went through the process of getting a building permit for this project, we actually have to build it to code. Damned inconsiderate of him, if you ask me. Halfway through the day it became apparent that we needed: 1) more joist hangers, 2) some thinset concrete, 3) galvanized 16 penny nails, 4) three more 2x4’s, 12’ long this time, 5) a break from building while Bob reviewed his plans [again] and 6) much more beer.
Pete was the obvious choice to make the run – being that Pete was the only one whose pickup was actually running. Bob’s only goes in reverse. Not useful on the highway, but not quite dead yet, either. I don’t even have a pickup – I’m between Harley’s and won’t need a pickup until I get another. Unfortunately, Pete can’t buy beer in town. He’s of legal age and all, but his mother-in-law works at the local grocery, and she’s convinced Pete’s a no-good, worthless bum. Whether that’s true, or not, is not for me to say. He’s a character, I’ll give you that, but he is gainfully employed, and his wife thinks highly of him despite her mother’s opinion. Pete could have bought beer at the Chevron, out on the highway, except the owners know his MIL too – she’d find out somehow. In any case, I had to go along, which I really didn’t mind anyway.
So we get in Pete’s old power-wagon, and he flips a couple switches on the dash, and pushes a button, and the engine starts. No key. I’m reminded of the story in the New Yorker last month, about the mechanic who put in extra, useless switches on peoples cars. Pete tells me that Mopar wanted $125 for an ignition switch, and Larry’s (a local junkyard) wanted $30. Pete had some switches just lying about, so viola! He said that it’s pretty theft-proof, because if the wrong switch is thrown the truck won’t run at all, and that sometimes even he can’t remember the correct combination.
On the way to town my cell phone rings. It’s Kathy, Bob’s daughter. She want’s to know if we are going to town, and if so, could we give her friend Helen a ride back. Sure, no problem. Helen lives near the lumberyard, and will meet us there. I have Kathy describe Helen, and tell her to describe Pete’s truck to Helen, so she doesn’t end up getting the wrong ride.
We get to the lumberyard, and we head in to get the stuff. We give the list to the kid behind the counter, and he tells us to pull up to the gate to load the thinset and 2x4’s. I head out back with the kid, and Pete pulls the truck around. As Pete gets out, I see this young blonde approaching, so I holler out ‘Helen?’, and she nods. I yell that she should just get in, we’ll be ready to go in a minute. Then, after Pete shows us how to let down the tailgate (another ingenious modification), we load up the concrete, close the tailgate, and load in the 2x4’s.
Getting in the cab, Pete & I get our first good look at Helen. Kathy and Helen are in high school, Juniors, IIRC. Helen is seriously good-looking, but of course she’s only 16. She’s at that dangerous age, not quite really a woman, not really a little girl, either. She’s skinny and curvy in all the right places, and has long, tanned legs. She’s wearing a white tank-top (with bra straps showing), and a mini-skirt – probably not the best choice for riding in a pickup, but it’s a short trip. Pete & I get in, Pete does his switch thing, and off we go. Helen says ‘Where’s the key?’, so Pete explains the system to her, and I notice he’s embellishing a bit – making a story of it. I’m thinking, easy Pete, she’s serious jailbait, when I realize that he’s not really doing anything flirty, and that maybe I’m just jealous (Yikes). Maybe I’ll get that pickup sooner than I thought…
Pete pulls up to the Chevron pumps, and proceeds to get some gas. I head in to buy beer, but first I ask Helen if she wants anything. ‘Can you get me a cherry sucker?’, she asks. Uh-huh. Helen wisely stays in the pickup, since there’s no demure way for her to get out. She’s sitting with both feet on my side, since the gearshift is in the way of putting her feet straight ahead.
When I come out, I put the beer on the floor and slide in. There suddenly isn’t enough room for Helens feet over on my side, so she puts one foot on each side. The truck is in 2nd gear, and the gearshift knob is just on the left side of her left leg. Her knees are together, still demure, no problem. We pull out onto the highway, and Pete shifts into 3rd. It’s about that time that I see the problem coming. And, for the life of me, I can’t decide what, if anything, to do. Did I mention that Helen has now unwrapped the cherry sucker, and is licking and sucking it?
I finally decide that conversation is the best tactic, if Helen is distracted, she won’t be freaked out so much. ‘So, Helen, how’s school going so far?’ Well, turns out that Helen can talk. If I’d been paying attention, I’d have learned all about how cheerleading is now a competitive sport, and you can get a letter in it, and how cross-country is way more fun than she thought, and how Janice somebody did something or other…
Meanwhile, Pete goes to shift to 4th, and finally realizes his dilemna. I don’t know if he’s just slow, or if he was distracted by the (really interesting) jiggling going on under that white tank-top from the interaction of his poor suspension and the concrete joints, but now he’s got a real problem. Never being faint of heart, Pete deals with the problem directly, uttering those immortal words: ‘Spread your legs, babe.’ She does, and he pulls the gearshift knob down to within 6" of every teenage boys wet dream. Now, I’m human, and I’m male, and I’m American. And so is Pete. We aren’t about to stop and stare, no, that would be rude. But a quick, discreet glance is somehow required in this situation. I dare any one of you to avoid it, given the circumstances.
So Pete and I steal a glance, and WTF? Looking straight ahead now, not listening to how there are now so many students that they have to split up lunch, and the teachers are kind of unhappy about it, I ponder the signifigance of what that glance revealed. Definitely something other than just plain panties going on there. In fact, come to think of it, there wasn’t any indication that there were panties – no pastel colors, just nothing except some sort of darker area… No. NO WAY! If the situation required a quick glance before, what is required now? One could argue that discretion is required. That now that the secret is out, gentlemanly behavior demands silence. One could just as easily argue that a thorough look is required, just to prove that one is wrong – no sweet young thing would wear just a mini-skirt. She certainly wouldn’t be blithley riding up the highway with two lucky dogs like us, enthralled in our wonder.
The decision was made, further investigation was necessary. That stolen glance was too quick, and my curiousity was now whetted to a fine edge. I had to know, dammit! Apparently, so did Pete, as he caught my eye, guiltily, for a millisecond, as we both took a moment and gazed over and down. Down at those pretty peach panties, with the decal on the front. A decal instantly recognizable to millions, maybe billions, of teenage girls and boys worldwide. Quickly averting our wandering eyes, we were too late. The lovely thing sitting between us, now so harshly examined, stopped talking, stopped licking her lollipop, and she looked at me, then Pete, open-mouthed. Not believing her own senses – ‘Were they just looking up my skirt?’.
Turning back to me, I said to her, really the only thing I could say, under the circumstances: ‘Hello!’
Pete, meanwhile, not being one of the possibly billions of teenage girls and boys worldwide who instantly recognized the decal, finally gets it. ‘Hello Kitty!’ he calls out, delightedly, and breaks into what can only be described as a shit-eating grin. Then we both crack up, as Helen puts her hands in her lap, pulls her knees together as far as possible, and turns not quite as red as her cherry sucker. Not quite, but awfully close.