The Red Fox

 This is the third of three parts, chronicling the three-week odyssey that five of us graduates took, leaving the night we strutted across the stage at Bishop Amat.

I never referred to Debbie as The Red Fox but I raised no objection when the others did. We were only ten days shy of walking across the stage at Bishop Amat, when I met her at one of the parties that took place in those waning days of high school. There was one every night it seemed, and though it was a tough job we did the best we could to maintain the high standards of those who had graduated before us. 

I just made sure I had a ride with John or Glen, and that I checked in with headquarters, to make sure Mama was not bummed out about me going out after work. The operative word was work. Even Mama found it challenging to criticize me after I had just put in six hours at Sunrize Market, so my checking in was mostly a formality.

Mama did not like surprises.

A benevolent cosmos had steered me to Debbie, or was it the other way around? Within the narrow confines of my insulated world, nothing like this had ever happened to me. Debbie was beautiful, she was vivacious, she was outgoing and best of all, she liked me.

What was the catch? When did the lever get pulled, with the trapdoor beneath me suddenly opening up? I knew it would be a long drop, but I was willing to take the fall. I was in love with Debbie.

That she had a boyfriend was a given. Debbie was too hot not to, but there was a glimmer of hope for me. There was something up with the boyfriend, so Debbie was taking a break from him for the moment.

I was no snake-in-the-grass,

I was pinch-hitting for the boyfriend, but I was not trying to get a hit. Mama may have been a thorn in my foot, but she didn’t raise no dummies. I recognized that this was my only chance, and the last thing I would-or could-have done, was to try and get on base with Debbie, if you catch my drift.

The seven girls had concocted the plan to meet the five-well, four-of us, up north at Plaskett Creek, without our knowledge (Bill had hitch-hiked south to San Luis Obispo, and on home). Yes, a weekend with girls violated the agreement we made with our parents, but I justified matters inside my noggin three ways:

First, we had no control over what young women did as post-graduate adults, especially when their parents had given permission for their weekend visit. Second, if I were planning to slither off in the sticks with a pup tent and only Debbie, then that would have been a violation of my agreement. I did not perceive seven female adults sleeping in a six-person tent, along with four male adults, as any violation of trust.

For it to have been a violation of trust, there would have to have been two of us willing to fool around in the midst of all the others. Speaking for myself I was in uncharted waters and got little sleep, so I can say definitively that nothing happened.

Furthermore, I matured far more that weekend as a person than I ever would have, had Debbie and I actually done what our parents evidently feared we had. Already knowing what Debbie was facing with her own boyfriend, could I ever have been that clueless, myself? Debbie and I spent the nights in close proximity but only for warmth. 

Nothing has more swagger than a self-righteous man, and that led me to the fateful showdown at home, on Fellowship Street, when Debbie dropped me off on Monday. I was never going to try and fool my mom because it was not possible.

On social media the other day, my sister JT described Mama as livid when I got home. I guess she was-who could tell? Standing alongside our upright piano, which had been moved into the center of the living room, Mama fixed her gaze on me for just the briefest of instants, before shifting it to Debbie and her friend, and then back to me. She did not utter one word. In our house we did not move the piano away from the wall to clean, so something major was going on.

Did I mention that Mama did not like surprises?

It was looking like sunset for me.

“Hi, Mama! I’m home! I’d like to introduce you to Debbie and her friend, Whosie. They gave me a ride home from Plaskett Creek.”

Mama did not say a word. This was not going well and Debbie knew it.

“Well, Markie, it’s been fun but we have to go,” Debbie said. Since I had left all my stuff in Glen’s van, there was nothing for Debbie to unload, and she was no dummy. She could see the storm brewing in Mama’s face, even if there were no clouds. 

Storm? Try hurricane season. The most staggering thing of all is that Mama believed me when I said nothing happened. I know she believed me because I was still alive. What she was freaked out about was not even my reputation, but hers.

“You don’t care about my reputation, but I am the laughing stock of my circle,” she lamented, primly.

“Why? Because I came home and didn’t try to hide anything?” I was still miffed that I got no credit for being upfront about the weekend. Is nothing sacred?

“Exactly. You broke your word and then threw it back in my face,” she went on. 

“No, Mama. Throwing it in your face would be accurate if there was anything to throw in your face in the first place. We didn’t do anything wrong, and if you can’t accept that then that’s your bag, not mine. If you don’t get off my case, I am going to split this scene.”

"See my beard-ain't it weird?"

And who'd have guessed? Mama forgot about Big Sur right away. OK, it's possible that she didn’t forget; I just gave her something else to have a cow about. I had returned from camping with three weeks of brilliant red whiskers flaming on, all over my face. When I clocked in at work with sideburns down to Baja, my boss had a twonky attack and promoted Jimmy Richardson to head box-boy on the spot. 

I spazzed out and quit, figuring I could find a job anywhere, but I was wrong. When I confessed what I had done to Mama, she went ape-shit, wrapping up her sermon with, “Just wait until your father finds out about this. He’s going to flip his wig.”

In the end I went crawling back to Sunrize on my belly, and begged my boss for my job back. 

"Don't be skeered-it's just a beard."
George Carlin

“No more camping trips? No more sideburns? No more bull-stuff?” he inquired, sarcastically. He knew Mama had clipped my wings already; he was just rubbing it in. “Go on and grab your apron and the mop. Yo can start by giving the entire store a thorough mopping.”

I was good with that-happy even. I had my job back, and though I once again had white walls, at least Mama was no longer mad at me about Bg Sur.

As for Debbie, well, you know how that all panned out. I did not see a lot of her that summer, and when that lever finally got pulled and the floor opened up beneath my feet, I was ready. I had a parachute strapped on my back for that inevitability.

If I remember correctly, her name was Wendy.