”Dance.”
For many years, I have enjoyed listening to the sweet sounds of memories past on my iPod. Red Dirt Road, by Brooks and Dunn, is one of my old-time favs. I am reminded of my late teens, and what I now know. It is often bittersweet. "I've learned; I've come to know, there's life at both ends-that Red Dirt Road."
Growing up my parents took us on many vacations, often allowing me to bring a friend. My father would play with us kids for awhile and then go gamble, and mom would spend a lot of her time reading. When my parents left me alone to be with my friends, I experienced so much fun. Conversely, when it was only themselves and me, it was a whole other story. There’s a high price to being spoiled.
It is the summer of 1987. I am seventeen. It was the first time that my parents did not make me go on vacation with them, and I am FREE for two whole weeks.
My Red Dirt Road is Route 227, or "the back roads." The two-way highway begins from the Clam City of Pismo Beach cutting into the rolling yellow hills of San Luis Obispo. A group of us girls pile into my yellow Chrysler. It's Sunday night, "Minor Night," at The Graduate. This is our favorite local spot because it is the only dance club in town. As we reach for the Coors Light under the seats, our hormones are raging. The stereo is blasted. We pound two to four cans, drinking and driving along the windy back roads with the windows half down. It is our local shortcut, lined with fields of empty alcohol bottles left from our classmates just ahead. The evidence must be destroyed. In those days, DUI's were rarely given. Our only concern was preventing our forbidden fruit from being confiscated and even worse, a Minor In Possession. Stupidity or innocence? I am sure a little bit of both. Gratitude that I am still alive.
As we turn down the street of Industrial Way, we park and make our last adjustments. Shimmering Shell lip gloss, Check. ID, Check Car Key, Check. We are convinced we need one last spray of Aqua Net to our bigger than life hair. Perfect, it will not move. Time to get out of the car and adjust our miniskirts. I tuck my oversized blouse into my white elastic five inch wide belt holding in my tummy. What tummy? Lastly, I shoved a few required possessions into my bra after locking the good ol' reliable K-car.
With fifty clicks of our high-heeled pumps, we hit the black pavement like a herd of addicted junkies. Adrenalin is in full effect. We are in the door. It's the eighties, and we were ready and willing to satisfy our libido.
I Want Your Sex, Papa Don't Preach, U Got The Look, Let Me Be The One, and I Wanna Dance with Somebody were just a few of the top hits released that year. Our programming was on like Donkey-Kong. The night often ended as being a blur between my liquid courage and sex drive (without the sex).
The clock struck twelve. My curfew was one A.M.. I needed (or so I thought) at least one smokin' hot make-out session with a boy my "Daddy Didn't Like Much." My station wagon was the perfect place. I am reminded as if it were yesterday: "Turn Off The Headlights, Drive By The Moonlight, Talking About What The Future Might Hold, Down That Red Dirt Road."
Tap, Tap, Tap. "ID please," said the officer. My boyfriend and I scurried to fix ourselves and hesitantly opened the back door. The windows were fogged. My favorite light yellow Esprit shirt was ever-so-slightly opened. With a suspicious look on the policeman's face, he poked his head in, looked around for any cans of our already thrown-out barley wheat nectar, and told us to go home. Our hearts pounded as a speed racer drove through our veins. Whew, what a relief.
How do any of us make it through our teenage years!?!
