We lasted eleven weeks as the house band, a pretty good run. Our agent said it best.
“House bands are like strippers, once they get used to your face they get bored.”
While we were there I got close to Sandy and Sammi, as friends. Because our schedules actually matched we could get together and go to movies, art galleries, flea markets, or just hang out. I thought things were fine until Sandy forced the issue.
“Look Wiley, you have to know we both like you. It’s time to take it up a notch. We’re not Mormons, polygamy isn’t working for us.”
I felt like I was about to go tap dancing in a minefield.
“I don’t know. What if I decide I like you best but I just don’t do it for you. What if I like Sammi and it ruins your friendship? Or ours?”
She grinned.
“We’re big girls. Plus, we’re not that close.”
Well, no pain, no gain.
“Since you took the first step, are you by chance free Sunday?”
“Well” she smiled, “I was going to wash my hair, but since you asked so nicely I would be happy to see you Sunday.”
“What would you like to do then?”
She surprised me.
“Oh no, you have to pick. Be creative, I get bored easily.”
“All right. I’ll pick you up at 2:00. Wear a nice conservative dress. And bring along jeans, at some point you might like to change. I have to go tune up now.”
I saw her talking to Sammi later and she seemed irritated. I found out she assumed I would ask her first later…
When I went to pick up Sandy she was waiting at the door. At first she didn’t recognize me because she was staring at my car. Up until then she had only seen my van.
“Is this your car?”
“No, I stole it to my way way over to make me look cool. Is it working?”
Not the response she was expecting.
“Yes it is. Now, when did you get this?”
“I’ve had it for about three years.”
“It” was my 1969 Mach 1. It had the original 351 Cleveland engine, rebuilt. Loud ‘glass pack’ mufflers, a Holly dual line 780 four barrel carb, rebuilt three speed transmission with a short throw shifter. It would bark the tires in first and second. I had no idea what the top end was, I always chickened out about 110. No airbags.
What set mine apart from all the other 1969 Mach 1s’ in the world was the paint job. It was a light blue, Carolina blue to be exact. And where the others had a black hood scoop, mine was pearl white.
I can hear the purists out there screaming. When I got it, it was dark blue. Possibly the ugliest stock color Ford ever had. It was heavily damaged on the driver side, by the time the body work was done I had already decided the paint scheme. I had seen one similar on a 1967 Chevelle and was impressed.
My paint and body man asked about the color, and when I told him what I wanted he almost paled.
“Not stock?” he said.
“No.”
He argued, then stalled trying to change my mind. After two weeks I told him a wrecker would be coming tomorrow to take it to another paint shop. He had it finished in a week.
As little as I paid for it I felt like I was stealing it. After the body work, paint, and mechanical work I had just under nine thousand in it. It had 6, 000 miles on the rebuild.
“How do you like my dress?”
It was a muted print with a knee lenght hemline.
“If you were going for school teacher sexy you nailed it. You look great.”
I walked her to the car and opened the door for her. She seemed surprised.
“I’m kind of old fashioned. If you don’t want me to open doors or pull out chairs, tell me now.”
“No, I like it. I’m just not used to it. So, where are we going?”
“No, no. Surprise, remember.”
We drove at a nice conservative pace, at no time did I go over 15 miles above the speed limit. By the look on her face when we pulled into the church parking lot I think my surprise worked.
“A church? Really?”
I could tell she wanted to ask more as she gave me her hand getting out of the car.
“You’ll see.” I said.
It was a performance of music from the fifteenth and sixteenth century, in period dress and using traditional instruments. It was mostly hymns, with ballads and the odd drinking song, cleaned up lyrically of course. The performers were from the local college music department.
I think she enjoyed at least part of it. It is an acquired taste.
Afterward we didn’t talk much because of the crowd. I knew most of the performers and many in the audience, so I was constantly being greeted. We were separated for a few minutes but I quickly moved back to her. She changed into jeans and a tee in the church office, by permission of course.
We didn’t talk much in the car, but she did hold my hand, as much as possible with a straight drive.
By then it was about six, on a pleasant early September day, Not too hot, not too cold, perfect for a picnic. I drove to a small state park that I knew wouldn’t be too crowded this time of day. There were only three cars in the parking lot, all belonging to fishermen. There was a sixty acre lake, a large shelter for group functions, and picnic tables scattered around the lake shore.
After helping her out of the car, we got a picnic basket, a cooler, and a blanket out of the trunk. She picked a table and we set the stuff on it.
“So, we’re on a picnic?”
“I thought you were smart. Would you like to eat now, or take a walk first?”
She chose to walk. We took one or the nature trails around the lake. I’d like to say we held hands, but the trail was at times to narrow and often uneven, so we talked. She would stop to look at the lake, or some tree or flower that took her interest. We made approving noises when an old man proudly showed us the two small mouth bass he had caught.
After we make the circle back to the picnic area I laid out our dinner, not letting her help..