Here Comes Trouble - Michael Moore [89]
But when I saw her next, she was coming out the front door, this time fully clothed.
“Let’s go,” she ordered. “And quit staring at my chest.”
“Whaddaya mean—you just showed me your chest!”
That was the best I could do? Act upset? Like I was mad I got to (sorta) see her breasts? Jesus, I could have thought of something nice to say, I could have offered her a compliment or an indication that she looked nice, I might have even figured out that she came to the window that way because she liked me. But that possibility was nowhere to be found in the shallow pool that passed for my total lifelong experience with girls.
We were late for the congressman’s meeting. So what? I got to see Sharon Johnson in a bra! I was unable to listen to anything the congressman had to say, as I was trying to remember and store those entire four seconds at her window.7
When the time came to send the high school kids on their way, I went up to Mr. Riegle to ask for a favor.
“Congressman,” I said, “I was wondering if you would come to our high school and speak about the war?”
“If it fits with my schedule, sure. Just check with my staff here and we’ll see if we can set it up.”
I drove Sharon back to her house. She was not happy with my request of the congressman, as he was famous for being only one of two Republicans in Congress who were opposing Nixon’s reelection over the issue of the war. Sharon felt that my invitation to Riegle was sure to upset our high school principal.
“What’s Mr. Scofield going to say when the congressman calls and says he can speak at the school?” she asked, perturbed. “Do you think he’ll be able to tell a congressman no? Of course not!”
“I’m glad you’re with me on this,” I said with a grin. “You wanna go to a movie sometime?”
Wow. I did it. I said it. And all it took was to see a functioning bra in use.
But wait! Oh, no—here comes the rejection.
“Sure. How ’bout next Saturday night?”
“Sure.”
“See you in student council Monday.”
And on Monday we were right back at it, with her voting with the majority to shoot down my latest proposal to declare “Church Night” unconstitutional (no after-school activities were allowed on Wednesday nights in Davison’s public schools, as that was the night the Protestant churches in town held their midweek church services).
When Saturday came around I picked out the movie to take her to, something I had seen back in the summer and could not get enough of: Billy Jack. This movie, I believed, would convert her to my worldview. In the movie, an ex–Green Beret is now a Zenlike Native American who takes on the local town rednecks and conservatives when they try to shut down a hippie “free school.” And there were breasts in the movie!
It was a chilly fall evening as I pulled my dad’s Impala into her driveway. This time I got out and went to the door. Her father answered and greeted me with the justifiable suspicion that was required in those days. As he did a quick scan into my eyes, let’s just say he did not like what he saw. Sharon appeared wearing a sweater that was modest but low-cut enough to confirm her father’s assessment of what the two of us were up to.
“When do you plan to have her home?” he asked.
“As soon as the movie is over, Mr. Johnson,” I said doing my best Eddie Haskell impersonation. “Just two hours, sir.”
“OK, don’t make it past eleven thirty.”
OK. Eleven thirty. Perfect. That should give us a good twenty minutes of making out, whatever that was.
We got in the Chevy and closed the doors. I put the key in the ignition and turned it. Nothing. I turned it again. Still nothing. Dead. I pumped the gas pedal and tried to start it again. Silence. This car was not going anywhere. Fortunately it was dark enough to cover how red my face was.
“Wow. I’m so sorry,” I said. “It does this from time to time. Needs a new battery, I think.”
“So, what are we going to