Here Comes Trouble - Michael Moore [88]
The birth control seat (I mean, the bucket seat) had not yet been mass-produced, so car seats were just one long bench. And when Linda got in the car, she slid over next to me—and I had no idea how I would be able to drive after that. Did I mention she was a cheerleader? Did I tell you about the perfect smile and the angel-white skin and the way her legs crossed like twin beams designed to withstand the worst earthquakes? I didn’t think so.
We went to the Dort Mall Cinema, one of the first generation of mall theaters that were designed for “extra comfort,” and in this case that meant they had stiff metal-backed seats that reclined so you could be more “relaxed.” At least one of us relaxed during Willy Wonka. I was anything but. I don’t remember much about the movie because I couldn’t stop worrying about the picnic lunch I left in my car. I had put a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken in the trunk and it was a ninety-degree day. My other worry was, What was I doing at a children’s movie on my first date? Nevertheless, Linda thought it was sweet and she told me as we left that most boys wouldn’t have taken her to a movie like that. I did not take that as a compliment. I wanted to be like most boys.
The second half of the date went better. First, we didn’t die of food poisoning. We found a nice place in the park and I broke out the bucket of chicken and some warm lemonade, laid a blanket out on the grass and we sat and talked about Vietnam, Mrs. Corning’s art class, and Rod Serling’s Night Gallery. She told me how I’d been good for her, and I looked at her and tried to figure out what she meant. Then it was time to go (I had to get the car back). We tossed the scraps in the trash barrel, rolled the blanket back up, and got in the car. I drove her home. We sat in the driveway.
“Thanks for the neat time,” she said.
“You’re welcome. I had a nice time.”
“Was this your first date?” she asked sympathetically.
“Uh, what do you mean? No, I’ve gone out. Lots.”
She smiled and leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.
“Let’s do this again,” she said.
Again?! You mean, go through all this again? I was exhausted.
“Sure,” I said. “That’ll be fun.”
She got out, flashed another one of her sweet smiles, and I never saw her again.
Date #2
Sharon Johnson was the vice president of the student council. We often clashed and voted on opposite sides of the issues. She was very much for everyone getting along and finding “common ground.” By the time I was a senior, I wanted to organize walkouts, boycotts of the lunchroom, and study-hall revolts. She hated hippies but played folk guitar in the choir and led the school in “Where Have All the Flowers Gone” at the spring talent show. She thought student council should plan school dances and hold theme-oriented “fun days.” I thought student council should ask why we had no black teachers. She’d roll her eyes and shake her head at me.
She was perfect dating material.
It had been nearly four months since my one and only date and, being a teenage boy, I was going a bit bonkers. And what better way to push myself right off the cliff than to get fixated on a girl who found me slightly reprehensible?
The local congressman, Don Riegle, a liberal Republican at the time (he later switched parties), had asked to meet with two student reps from each of the county’s high schools at his office in Flint. Sharon and I were picked from Davison High. I offered to drive and told her I would pick her up.
It was early on a Saturday morning when I pulled in her driveway. I honked to let her know I was there (getting out of the car and knocking on the door might make me seem too forward; had to play it cool). There was no response, so I honked a second time. At that moment she appeared at her upstairs bedroom window. She was wearing only a bra.
“Hold your horses!” she shouted down at me. “I heard you the first time!”
Simply wishing she had more