Buzzing The Cup

It was Charlie Eickman's beloved 1956 Chevy.  One summer night in 1961 he drove it to the Lawrence Park Pavilion, where every Wednesday night a dance was sponsored for teenagers in the community. He wanted to show it off to his buddies, all seniors at Lawrence Central High School.

In February, at age fifteen and a half, I received my beginner's permit to drive. My stepdad was teaching me how to drive so I figured the following was true: 1) I knew everything there was to know about driving a car, and 2) a beginner's permit was the same as a driver's license.

With Lynn Stewart, one of the prettiest girls in the sophomore class, by my side I brazenly walked up to Charlie and his friends to ask him if Lynn and I and two friends could borrow his car to "buzz" a local drive-in hamburger joint. We would be gone for only a few minutes, I assured him. We would go to The Cup, then come right back. Amazingly, he said "yes." "But please be careful because the brakes act up sometimes," he warned, as we ran giggling all the way to his precious Chevy.

The warning about the brakes was long forgotten before we left the gravel parking lot.  In the car was Lynn and her friend in the backseat, Carol Lewis, shotgun, and me, the driver. Off I raced down Franklin Road to Pendleton Pike. Left on the pike and another left into the long line of cars "buzzing around" The Cup, a hamburger and fries drive in. We all rolled down our windows because being seen was the whole purpose for being there. Carol, Lynn, and her friend leaned out the windows and waved and shouted to faces recognizable in cars that were backed into parking spots. I straightened my back,  put my left arm out the window, and looked straight ahead. I was cool; we were cool. Oh, yeah.

We left The Cup and drove up Pendleton Pike to Frisch's Big Boy and repeated the same routine. Thirty minutes passed, then an hour. It was way past time to go back. The first sign of brake trouble occurred at Pendleton Pike and Franklin Road. I put my foot on the brake pedal to slow down, but nothing happened and we made the turn on two wheels. All the girls laughed because they thought I was joking by turning the corner at thirty miles an hour.

By the time we arrived back at the pavilion's parking lot, I had forgotten about the brake incident five minutes before. Once again I made the turn going way too fast. All these years later, I can still see the people jumping out of my way; hear the screams from the backseat; feel Carol Lewis at my feet pounding on the brake pedal with her hands; I can still sense my terror in those last few seconds before...

 I hit the tree.

Except for bumps, scrapes, bruises and banged up knees, there were no injuries. The police arrived and took the only occupant of the car (my friends had abandoned me) into custody. I was not under arrest, however, but I would have some explaining to do once we arrived at my parents' home.

Experts in human behavior say that some people, when under emotional distress, will react to said distress in unusual and bizarre ways, like smiling when the expected reaction would be frowning or laughing instead of crying. Say, for example, you might expect that when the police show up at a parent's house at eleven o'clock at night with their fifteen-year-old daughter to report that the daughter 1) was driving a borrowed car without a license, 2) was speeding said borrowed car through a public park endangering pedestrians and occupants of car, and then 3) driving above-mentioned said borrowed car straight into a tree, some people might show signs of being distressed. Not my mother.

When Mother answered the door to see two policeman and me standing before her, it might have seemed odd to them when a huge smile spread across her face as if we had all come for a party she was throwing. She sprang into good-hostess action, inviting the officers in, offering them a seat, asking if they would like some tea, and then creating small talk in order to avoid the reason for their visit. Avoidance was mother's way of coping with the "really big things" in life. If she didn't acknowledge them, then they didn't exist. The little everyday things, on the other hand, were a problem for Mother, but this one? This one was HUGE and Mother was just fine, thank you very much. There would be no screaming at this social event.

As it turned out this really big thing disappeared in a day. I had some uncomfortable moments sitting across from two policemen in our living room while they lectured me about using good sense--little did they know about my under-developed pre-frontal cortex--and then they left. Nothing happened. It was never mentioned again in our home.  I wonder, would I be that lucky today?