Richie intellectually processed what Terry was saying; however, he emotionally refused to accept it. Having no answer for Terloff’s “Words of Wisdom,” he waited until the '61 Ford Falcon pulled into his driveway before bolting from the car without saying a word or looking back at the driver.
“Asshole,” Terry yelled at Richie in reaction to him slamming shut the passenger side door. The team manager, who rarely lost his cool, knew at one level that he had overplayed his hand. Regaining his composure, he now realized that the anger within him was misdirected. He was pissed, but at himself, for violating one of the most sacred “Junior High Rules,” that being to never question who a friend was dating or why he was dating her, regardless of the circumstances. He silently cursed himself, knowing that a stunt like that never ended well. Putting the car in reverse, he slowly backed out of the driveway, then, against his better judgment, peeled out and drove away.
Bursting into the house, Richie violently closed the breezeway door behind him and shouted, “Fuck.”
“Whoa, what’s that about?” came the maternal voice to his right. After a busy afternoon of shopping with Suzy, she had finally decided to take some “Mom Time,” sitting on her floral couch reading the latest edition of this week’s Life Magazine, when the human whirlwind, her son, burst through the door.
“It’s nothing,” came the brusque reply as he turned the corner and headed down the hallway towards his bedroom.
Unwilling to let it go, the breezeway occupant fired off one more futile volley, “Doesn’t sound like nothing, and watch your language, young man. This isn’t a locker room. Understood”
“Understood,” Richie retorted in the same agitated voice that started the encounter. Hurrying down the hallway, he feinted to his left, then turned right into his bedroom, quietly closing the door behind him. Two steps into his room, he propelled himself upward while at the same time twisting his body around in midair, so that he landed squarely on his back, a perfect landing…dead center…in the middle of his bed.
Not wanting to further incur the wrath of the Home Warden, who might be listening outside his door or wandering down the hall towards his bedroom to seek further clarification of her cursing edict; Richie stared at the ceiling and the Eagles 1960 Championship pennant that was directly overhead, and repeated unceasingly “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” in a subdued voice. His version of counting sheep before falling asleep.
Startled by the shaking of his shoulder, Richie found himself awoken by Suzy. “Someone named James or Jim is on my phone. Don’t stay on long; I’m expecting a call. I have plans for tonight.” She said it in a way as if Richie didn’t.
“Jimmy,” he asked.
“Could be, Suzy guessed. “He needed to talk with you right away, which is why I woke you up.”
Richie rubbed his eyes, jumped out of bed, and grabbed the extension phone in his sister’s room that was lying on her nightstand.
“What’s up”?
In a higher-pitched voice than usual, Jimmy, frustrated, responded, the words tumbling out of his mouth in rapid fire, “Everything was set. My dad said I could take my Mom’s car. No problem. Just as planned, my Old Man would drive to the family gathering. Straightforward. Clean. The cars mine. Then the Old Man gets into his car, and it won’t turn over, battery dead. So he comes back into the house with my Mom in tow and says, ‘Sorry, Jimmy, I need my car,’ and with that he takes the keys and drives off. I’ve got no wheels and no way to pick up Estelle. “
“Shit. Let me think.” All Richie could envision was a train coming off the tracks and tumbling down a hill. Taking a deep breath and in a low voice, in case Suzy, a notorious eavesdropper, was in earshot, proceeded, “Give me a minute to figure this out. Then, taking his sister’s phone from his ear, he rotated his head on his neck 360 degrees several times, a stress relieving technique that his Old Man taught him that also helped to clear the mind. 30 seconds later, weighing all his options, Richie had a plan.
“You still there?” Jimmy asked?
Richie replied confidently, “Yeah, I’m still here. Don’t sweat it. Time is of the essence. I’ll jump in the shower right away, get dressed, and then I’ll drive over and pick you up. Then the two of us will drive to Estelle’s, where I’ll disappear into the back seat while you pick her up. Once that’s done, the three of us will head over to Wanamaker's. They’re open till 7 pm on Saturday, where I’ll drop you off at the store. Once that’s done, I’ll drive to Sally’s, pick her up, drive back to Wanamaker’s, and gather up you two shoplifters.” Catching his breath, and in a cheerful tone, he finished his sentence, “Then…we’ll head to the Palestra.”
“That’s a lot of moving parts,” conceded Jimmy.
“It is, but it’ll work,” said Richie. “Let Estelle know that you’re going to pick her up early, and I’ll do likewise with Sally. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it,” Jimmy replied, before giving Richie his address. As he hung up the phone, Jimmy sat there wondering what else could go wrong with such an auspicious start to the evening.
Normally, a dawdler when it came to showering and dressing, Richie claimed dibs on the shared siblings' bathroom. In record time, he shit, shaved, and showered and rifled through his wardrobe picking out a pair of khakis, a white button down shirt, and his favorite tan and brown sweater to go along with his brown Weejuns penny loafers. This time, he barely glanced at the mirror. Passable, he thought as he executed his beat-the-clock approach to getting dressed.
Passing his Old Man in the hallway, ”Life’s Philosopher,’ took one look at Richie and said, “It better be worth it. And apologize to your mother, which you’ll need to do if you’re going to take her car.”
Alas, another hurdle. The gods were truly testing him. Avoiding the presumptive close by having his coat on, he approached his mother in the kitchen where she was sipping a cup of tea and listening to a middle-of-the-road radio station playing Doris Day’s ‘Que Sera Sera.’
“Sorry, Mom, for losing my temper and cursing. Can’t say it won’t happen again, but I’ll try my best to avoid using those words around you.”
Scratching her head, she looked directly at Richie and asked him, “Is everything okay. You know you can always talk to me or your father about anything, and I mean anything at any time.”
“I know, I know.” Richie remained standing, not wanting to sit down or engage in a lengthy conversation, which would cause him to miss his window for executing his conspiratorial plan.
“Are you sure?” Her car keys were strategically placed in front of her on the table.
Avoiding looking at them, Richie replied, “I’m sure.” Still standing, and to hasten the conversation, he did a Pinocchio without his nose growing. “All right, you know Terry, Terry Terloff, the team manager and my close friend, well, he’s having girl problems. I told him the girl that the girl he’s dating was playing around and that everyone in the school knew it. He was a ‘Cathy’s Clown’ and he just wouldn’t accept it. He got pissed off at me and, well, we exchanged some heated words. The type you use just before you start throwing punches. When I came through the door, I was more angry with myself than with Terry because I broke a junior high rule. I knew I should have kept my mouth shut, but I didn’t. Sorry, again, for the cursing.”
Holding her chin in her hand, she listened closely to Richie’s explanation without showing any outward sign of believing him. Finally, she let her hand drop from her face. Then, staring at her key chain on the table, she gave a reluctant nod of her head, looked at the symbol of Richie’s freedom, and handed him the keys. “Okay, apology accepted, and as difficult as it is, sometimes, you have to tell the truth, even if you know it will jeopardize your friendship. If Terry’s a good enough friend, he’ll get over it, and if not, then he was never a real friend in the first place. Your Dad and I are going to a neighborhood party tonight, and there’s a full tank of gas in the car. Oh, by the way, tell that cute cheerleader, Sally, I said hello.”
Twenty seconds later, Richie pulled out of the driveway, on his way to executing the first step of the Wanamaker plan.