Hank Bailey parked his old Ford on the gravel and watched the dust cloud in the rear-view mirror, the dust storm he'd made when he slid off the road and skidded sideways across the parking lot, just to show off to anybody watching behind their curtains.
He was a darned good driver at seventeen, the magic age of your entire life, as far as he was concerned. Everything happened when you were seventeen. After that, you got old.
The year was 1961.
The Ford was 1952.
The paint job was dirty brown.
The rust was just plain dirty.
And the interior was crap.
The best car to have when you're seventeen and living life like Heaven was waiting for you tomorrow.
Hank's door creaked loudly in protest when he shoved it open and stepped out onto the gravel.
It was Saturday night and the girls were inside the diner, looking mighty pretty for small town girls. Some wore lipstick like a city girl, a naughty girl, the boys all said. They looked good with red lips and wayward eyes, he figured.
He stood tall, over six feet, about an inch, almost. His hair was dark and curly. His eyes were blue and piercing. The girls liked his eyes, he knew. He could pin them with his eyes.
He had long legs under his jeans and a big chest under his cotton shirt.
The driver's door slammed beneath his strong hand, and the driver of the hot Ford sauntered across the diner parking lot in no hurry at all. They would wait for him, all those girls inside.
The door dinged at his touch. It should have been a drum-roll, not a ding. He hated the sissy ding, had ever since he was a baby.
His blue eyes scanned the restaurant like a pro. Music played on the jukebox. An Elvis song, filled with love.
Hank's face flushed for a second. Then he heard the giggles.
The girls. Down on the left, in a booth, near the jukebox and Elvis.
He smiled and sauntered on down, feeling the pull of his shirt across his broad shoulders, shoulders so powerful he looked like a man in them. Nearly ripped the seams every time he came in this place on a Saturday night.
They were watching him. Some of their eyes traveled all over him. Some of their lips sighed. Bad lips, naughty lips. Fantasy lips on fantasy faces.
He stopped his massive height right beside the booth.
"Evening, ladies," he drawled.
"Hi, Hank," they all said in unison, a chorus of beauty to his ears, singsong admiration in their voices.
"Mind if I join you tonight?"
They all slid over, all four girls, two on each side of the table, as if he could sit on both benches at the same time.
"Well, now, which side should I chose?" He smiled handsomely into each of their gorgeous expectant faces, seeing them gleaming in anticipation.
He couldn't decide. They were all so beautiful.
The waitress came over.
"Hank," she said. "Your mom just called. She needs a ride over to the hospital to see your Grandpa."
Hank stared at the women in boring white shoes, gray frizz on her head, and a notepad stuck inside her blouse pocket, making it bulge.
"It's Saturday night," he said, stupidly, sprouting a nasty frown, without thinking.
The waitress shoved her hands on her hips and said, "Is that supposed to mean something, because if it is, it doesn't mean much. Now go on home, because she's waiting."
Crap! Son of a gun!
The witch of a waitress walked away, showing him her tough back, and he pulled a face at her. The girls giggled.
Crap, that was immature.
Brenda, the sauciest of the girls, snapped her gum and drawled, "Mommy wants her little boy."
"Shut up, Brenda," a red lipstick face said. "It isn't Hank's fault."
He stared at them for a second, then one of the girls with pink lips and rosy cheeks, said, "I'll go with you, Hank, if you like. I heard about your Grandpa falling off the roof. Is he going to be okay?"
"Yes. He broke his arm, that's all."
"I'll go with you." She smiled.
"Thanks."
As soon as she slid out of the booth, the door dinged, and in marched a gaggle of teenaged boys, playfully punching and shoving at each other.
"Hey, Hank!" one called. "Wanna drag the strip with that piece of rust on wheels?"
Hank grinned and almost said, "Yeah, loser."
But a soft hand slid into his strong one and his mouth didn't work.
He shook his head.
"Chicken!"
Hank shrugged and tugged on the soft hand.
"Hank's got a girl, guys. Ain't she pretty," someone viciously cooed, boy-like.
Hank walked with Daisy across the floor, feeling not quite so powerful and handsome as when he first entered the diner, because Daisy was so sweet she made him okay with who he really was inside.
At the door, his buddies parted for him to leave.
He nodded at them, suddenly mature beyond belief.
"Good evening, gentlemen. See you next time," he said in a quiet and dignified voice.
The gentlemen stared wide-eyed as Hank and Daisy left the diner.
Ahh. Seventeen, the magic age of your entire life.
Everything happens when you're seventeen and a small town teenaged boy.
He was a darned good driver at seventeen, the magic age of your entire life, as far as he was concerned. Everything happened when you were seventeen. After that, you got old.
The year was 1961.
The Ford was 1952.
The paint job was dirty brown.
The rust was just plain dirty.
And the interior was crap.
The best car to have when you're seventeen and living life like Heaven was waiting for you tomorrow.
Hank's door creaked loudly in protest when he shoved it open and stepped out onto the gravel.
It was Saturday night and the girls were inside the diner, looking mighty pretty for small town girls. Some wore lipstick like a city girl, a naughty girl, the boys all said. They looked good with red lips and wayward eyes, he figured.
He stood tall, over six feet, about an inch, almost. His hair was dark and curly. His eyes were blue and piercing. The girls liked his eyes, he knew. He could pin them with his eyes.
He had long legs under his jeans and a big chest under his cotton shirt.
The driver's door slammed beneath his strong hand, and the driver of the hot Ford sauntered across the diner parking lot in no hurry at all. They would wait for him, all those girls inside.
The door dinged at his touch. It should have been a drum-roll, not a ding. He hated the sissy ding, had ever since he was a baby.
His blue eyes scanned the restaurant like a pro. Music played on the jukebox. An Elvis song, filled with love.
Hank's face flushed for a second. Then he heard the giggles.
The girls. Down on the left, in a booth, near the jukebox and Elvis.
He smiled and sauntered on down, feeling the pull of his shirt across his broad shoulders, shoulders so powerful he looked like a man in them. Nearly ripped the seams every time he came in this place on a Saturday night.
They were watching him. Some of their eyes traveled all over him. Some of their lips sighed. Bad lips, naughty lips. Fantasy lips on fantasy faces.
He stopped his massive height right beside the booth.
"Evening, ladies," he drawled.
"Hi, Hank," they all said in unison, a chorus of beauty to his ears, singsong admiration in their voices.
"Mind if I join you tonight?"
They all slid over, all four girls, two on each side of the table, as if he could sit on both benches at the same time.
"Well, now, which side should I chose?" He smiled handsomely into each of their gorgeous expectant faces, seeing them gleaming in anticipation.
He couldn't decide. They were all so beautiful.
The waitress came over.
"Hank," she said. "Your mom just called. She needs a ride over to the hospital to see your Grandpa."
Hank stared at the women in boring white shoes, gray frizz on her head, and a notepad stuck inside her blouse pocket, making it bulge.
"It's Saturday night," he said, stupidly, sprouting a nasty frown, without thinking.
The waitress shoved her hands on her hips and said, "Is that supposed to mean something, because if it is, it doesn't mean much. Now go on home, because she's waiting."
Crap! Son of a gun!
The witch of a waitress walked away, showing him her tough back, and he pulled a face at her. The girls giggled.
Crap, that was immature.
Brenda, the sauciest of the girls, snapped her gum and drawled, "Mommy wants her little boy."
"Shut up, Brenda," a red lipstick face said. "It isn't Hank's fault."
He stared at them for a second, then one of the girls with pink lips and rosy cheeks, said, "I'll go with you, Hank, if you like. I heard about your Grandpa falling off the roof. Is he going to be okay?"
"Yes. He broke his arm, that's all."
"I'll go with you." She smiled.
"Thanks."
As soon as she slid out of the booth, the door dinged, and in marched a gaggle of teenaged boys, playfully punching and shoving at each other.
"Hey, Hank!" one called. "Wanna drag the strip with that piece of rust on wheels?"
Hank grinned and almost said, "Yeah, loser."
But a soft hand slid into his strong one and his mouth didn't work.
He shook his head.
"Chicken!"
Hank shrugged and tugged on the soft hand.
"Hank's got a girl, guys. Ain't she pretty," someone viciously cooed, boy-like.
Hank walked with Daisy across the floor, feeling not quite so powerful and handsome as when he first entered the diner, because Daisy was so sweet she made him okay with who he really was inside.
At the door, his buddies parted for him to leave.
He nodded at them, suddenly mature beyond belief.
"Good evening, gentlemen. See you next time," he said in a quiet and dignified voice.
The gentlemen stared wide-eyed as Hank and Daisy left the diner.
Ahh. Seventeen, the magic age of your entire life.
Everything happens when you're seventeen and a small town teenaged boy.
Just about everything.
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