Monday, October 4

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October 4, Monday - Got my hair fixed and went home and went to bed. Slept all afternoon

October 5, Tuesday - Bud was sent home from school for fighting. Marv went up with him and got everything straightened out. Having car trouble.

October 6, Wednesday - Sent car back today.

Car trouble. This is a 1955 Cadillac Series 62. Car trouble comes with a second mortgage. If dad had taken the Big Blue Cadillac to Greenlease Cadillac downtown, I'd still be paying for the repairs. Dad had a mechanic he trusted - two, in fact. They both worked at the Standard station at Independence Avenue and Van Brunt Boulevard. Lynn and Joel could, quite honestly, fix anything that had wheels on it. A few years later, when my 1962 Chevy dropped a main bearing, Joel built me a nicely warmed over small block with lopey 3/4 race cam and Lynn wrenched up a hard-shifting, bulletproof Powerglide transmission.

In the ninth grade, I had a target painted on me, or at least that's how it felt. I was pretty big for my age, but pudgy. Let me rephrase that- in the ninth grade, I cracked the two hundred pound barrier. The Levi's commercials on the radio that taunted "Poor Fat Marvin" were made with me in mind, and I almost never heard the end of it. (I went by Marvin in school. Nicknames weren't allowed, and I'd be damned if I was going to be called Orville everywhere I went.) Every insecure little guy that wanted a reputation took potshots at the doughy big guys, just for bragging rights.

This fight was instigated by a small Italian kid, a Napoleonic psychotic case study with a chip on his shoulder and horseshoe taps on his heels. He came bouncing up behind me after gym class and clocked me upside the head. From behind. I wheeled around and pounded the only thing I could reach - his head - and I hit him hard. He fell, his nose suddenly gushing blood, back into the row of lockers that lined the hall.

It's said in professional sports circles that the referees only see the second punch being thrown. It is exactly the same in Junior High School. Coach Gene George came around the corner just as I launched into the little guy. He then grabbed me by the belt and escorted me to the principal's office. The principal walked me, still carrying my funky white drawstring gym bag, to the front door, handed me a note, and told me to come back with a parent.

After a short detour to the Northeast Book Store and another stop at Fredman's Drugs on ninth for a handmade Cherry Coke from the fountain, I meandered home. Dad sighed, got my side of the story, put on a clean shirt and went back to school with me, and had a heart-to-heart with the principal, Mr. McDaniel. He and dad were both Masons, I think. I was reinstated in time for lunch. I walked into the cafeteria and man, did it get quiet in there.

That particular little banty rooster never bothered me again, but the scenario repeated itself a half-dozen times that year and next. I came out unscathed from every encounter, and the predators started to realize I wasn't the easy target they thought I was. They mostly left me alone from then on. I had a couple of encounters in high school, but nothing that I couldn't handle.

The Big Blue Cadillac still has issues. I figure they hadn't spent enough money on it yet. The car knows.