As High school seniors, John, Chuck and I spent far too many Friday and Saturday nights checking out girls at the Park In Grill, Hardees and Shoney’s on Cherry Road. When we weren’t cruising for girls, we were bowling, playing putt-putt or just hanging around. John and I would often double-date. (Chuck’s dating routine was less predictable as he worked his way through a bout of cancer.) John had a steady date all through high school. He and Beverly would often double with me and my crush of the moment. My love was constant but not focused.
The Fort Mill High Class of 1966 did not have a senior trip. Past misfortunes, misbehavior and coming integration made school board members hesitant to continue the tradition. As a consequence, we guys planned several senior trips on our own. Like every high school senior from time immemorable, we set our sights on Myrtle Beach. Chuck was unable to join us for this escapade but John and I planned to leave early on Saturday morning. My family was already at the beach with the Davis family and Dad had found a small cottage that would let the two teen boys stay for the week. Property owners, with good reason, were hesitant to rent to high school/college kids so I think Dad had to promise to cover any damage.
This was the summer between my senior year and starting college and I was working the bottling line at the Coca-Cola Bottling Plant in Rock Hill. Since I was the only white guy working on the back line and the youngest, I became sort of the mascot/joke for Big Charlie, Isaac, and Calvin. They were all adults and I was there to fill in for whoever was on vacation. There was plenty of room for humor and my awkwardness was the center of much of it.
My first job was to take the crates full of Coke bottles and stack them on the wooden pallets. I don’t know the exact weight of a full crate of glass bottled Coca-Cola, but I can tell you that each one was heavier than the one I had lifted before. If I fell behind in the job, Big Charlie, with massive arms, would come over and catch me up but not without a friendly jab at me as “college boy”. I was, from the start, surprised at how easily he and the other guys accepted me.
The year 1966 was still a time when integration moved slowly through the South. At the Coca-Cola Bottling Plant there were two dressing rooms, unmarked but understood to be for white workers and black workers. These also served as break rooms. The division was no longer enforced but everyone had just settled in to the way it had always been.
Since I really didn’t know anyone in the front bottling room, (two lady inspectors and the man in charge of the line) I followed my coworkers into the break room. They told me I was in the wrong room but said I was welcome to stay.
And stay, I did. We would play penny poker during breaks and I would listen to great stories that were never edited because of my presence. It was a real learning experience. My parents were both from families that taught respect for everyone. Had I ever spoken disrespectfully to any adult of any race, my father would have snatched me up on the spot and taught me the error of my ways. These guys were open and outgoing to me despite the differences in our life experiences.
I told the guys that I was going to the beach, and asked them what I should take to drink. I could, at 18, drink beer legally but wanted something stronger more grown up for the great adventure. Coke bottled a drink called Fanta at the time and one flavor, believe it or not, was Grapefruit Fanta. I was told that it mixed well with gin and so I coaxed one of the guys to buy me a half gallon to take with us. (That much gin was pretty optimistic for two guys who had not consumed that much total alcohol in their combined lifetimes.) He was hesitant but, I think, looked forward to hearing the stories when I returned.
John and I were taking dates to see the Temptations perform at the Grady Cole Center in Charlotte on Friday and leaving for the beach on Saturday. Despite the British Invasion in music, ours was a generation steeped in the songs of Jerry Butler, The Drifters, Ben E. King and The Four Tops. Although most of it now falls under the category of “Beach Music,” we simply called it “Soul.” As we aged, those songs were still likely to top our playlists. We picked up Beverly and my date, Susan and found our seats in the mezzanine section of the auditorium. The show was great with spontaneous dancing breaking out here and there. The dance was the “Shag” and despite that British misappropriation of the word, it has endured in the Carolinas.
When we got back into town, we took Susan home first and then John walked Beverly in. When John came back to his Ford Galaxy, it took only one look and both of us knew what was next.
“Let’s go!” we both said at once and home we went to pick up our gear. At 11:30 on Friday night, we set off on our beach adventure and headed to Lancaster to get to Highway 9, the preferred route to Myrtle Beach from home. Highway 9 was a two-lane road and was deserted at that time of night. Only the occasional little crossroads store lit up the road as we passed. All the stations were all closed for the night so we were lucky to have plenty of gas in the Galaxy.
We were annoyingly good kids but this was our week to be “wild.” As we passed through Pageland, “Home of the Watermelon Festival”, every little general store/gas station had watermelons stacked outside. Our criminal selves plotted that the next store with watermelons outside would be our target. John slowed down as we neared a darkened roadside stand and saw watermelons stacked beside it. John turned off the headlights and rolled up beside our quarry. I jumped out and evidently took too much time because John whispered loudly, “Just get one. Don’t be so picky!”
I jumped in with our prize, dark green and the size of a yearling pig, and off we sped in the dark. John did not turn the headlights back on until we were 100 yards or so down the road. For miles we kept our eyes on the rearview mirror, certain that at any moment, the red lights of John Law would illuminate the road behind us.
Flushed with the adrenalin of our escapade, we took on a whole new sense of recklessness. “They would have put us in jail if they had caught us,” John said. I assured him that we would be okay because I had put a dollar bill between two of the watermelons we left behind.
For some reason, John found that ridiculous. Since that time, every time I act “too big for my britches,” John reminds me of the Great Watermelon Heist of 1966.
We arrived at the beach house where my parents were staying at about four in the morning. There was nothing to do but snooze in the car for a couple of hours. When the sky began to show some light over the ocean, we walked out and sat on the sand to watch the sun rise. It was a good one and we sat quietly watching. This was a final summer and we were about to leave the security of high school, friends and family and venture out on our own. We would have to be more responsible and more mature…but not yet!
Mom and Dad were surprised but not shocked at our overnight travel. We had arrived safely and so there was no reason to worry. We waited until lights came on in the house and joined the families for breakfast. There was plenty for everyone…there always was when the Hills and Davises were together. Mom and Irene Davis were both great cooks and Bob Hill was a breakfast gourmand. Eggs, biscuits, country ham, grits and red-eye gravy were on the menu and we were some hungry travelers.
Dad had the keys to our temporary bachelor pad. He gave us the address and off we went. This was just the kind of place I would rent to teenagers. There was one big room with a fold out couch on either side and a few chairs. One end of the room was separated by set of low cabinets with the sink in the middle and open storage on either side. A stove and refrigerator completed the kitchen ensemble and we were delighted. A small bathroom took up the back-right corner of the room and came complete with one of those sheet metal showers.
We took over like this was a permanent residence with soft drinks in the refrigerator and food (such as it was) in the cabinets. The gin took its prominent place in the open cabinet beside the sink.
Things were looking good until there was a knock at the door. My parents, my 12 year-old sister Connie and the all four Davises had come to see our pad. My thoughts went directly to the gin. While John led them around the room, I took up residence in front of the bottle of Gilbey’s Gin. As the families swarmed over the tiny apartment, I tried to look like Hugh Hefner leaning on his stereo cabinet and king of his domain. I am almost sure Dad knew something was up but was wise enough to play dumb.
When they left, my knees were almost buckling and John and I let out a big sigh of relief. Finally we had the place to ourselves. I knew a girl who was working at the beach for the summer and she had a friend to go out with John so we were set. Girls, gin, an apartment and the Tams on the transistor radio. Let the growing-up begin.
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