How and why a memory comes fully formed, I’ll never know, and yet I’m grateful for whatever box dumps it into my day.
It was, I think 1966. There was a teen club on Central Avenue—plate glass windows, small strip mall door, optimistic sign above naming it The Cavern. A tiny stage on the left I lusted after with little hope, my kid band consigned to neighborhood parties and church rec halls with suspicious parents chaperoning.
Real bands played here, and it was within walking distance, so I spent lots of time there. And it was on a Friday I spotted her, a Charlotte version of a Mod Girl: long blond hair ironed flat, short skirt and pink lipstick—the Yardley Slicker Girl, grooving in front of the bandstand and batting assisted eyelashes at the band. Maybe 14. At 16, even 2 years was a huge gap for me, but she was gorgeous and I was, well, 16, and when we found ourselves on the sidewalk after the show, I tried to drum up an opening line.
She saved me. “Will you walk me home?” she blurted. I asked her where she lived, calculating the ratio of distance versus reward.
Her street was not only a short distance past my house, but was an enclave of nearly-rich folks a few rungs up from my middle-class existence, and I agreed instantly.
We walked in the dark, her heels clicking on the sidewalk, gently probing for clues in the clumsy way teenagers do, each hoping not to say something incredibly stupid.
“What’s your favorite song?” she suddenly asked, and in the moment of my indecision (this was 1966—how could I answer that?) she cut me off and said “Mine’s ‘The Poor Side of Town” by Johnny Rivers. I think that’s the best song in the world. Don’t you?”
I hesitated. We hadn’t held hands yet and I was still calculating. “It’s a great song,” I lied. Johnny Rivers was complicated. I thought “Live at the Whisky A Go-Go” was cool, but this latest left me a bit cold with the Deputy Dawg Southern mush accent (“Howkinyewtalemehowmushyoumissmeee?”). I would later come to like the song, but at present I was thrown off my game.
It was quite a long walk to her house, and as she began to talk about the song, I stopped lusting and started listening. Her face had this sad look, and the Yardley Slicker mod girl turned into a 14-year-old Charlotte girl telling me things she needed to tell someone. So we walked and talked, our hands brushing but never holding.
We walked down streets past the nice houses and crossed Plaza Road to a part I’d never seen. Today, Plaza-Midwood has been gentrified (I couldn’t afford the house I grew up in), but back then there were dodgy parts, and as we walked up to her house I noticed peeling paint and sagging stairs, the flicker of black and white television semaphoring the front windows.
She opened the door and I spied her father, sitting in an ancient lounger, PBR in his hand, dirty white strapped T shirt, work pants, watching a boxing match.
He got up and came over, and I stood still, not knowing what would come next.
“And who’s this?” he said, nodding his head toward me, not taking his eyes off her.
“He walked me home, Daddy,” she said, and smiled.
He shook my hand. “Thanks for doing that, son,” he said. “I worry about her a lot, and you seem like a nice kid.”
He invited me to sit, and offered me a drink, which I declined. He asked me a few questions about myself and kept me around longer than I wanted to stay. I finally got up, and they both did also.
“I’m a cabdriver,” he said. “That’s what I do for a living.” He handed me a card. “Don’t you ever even think about calling anyone else but me if you need a cab, OK?” I had never ridden a cab in my life, but I told him I would absolutely do that.
She and I walked out to the porch. “You see?” she said. And gave me a hand squeeze.
I walked home, singing her song. I don’t remember her telling me her name. I never saw her again.