Bell Bottom Blues, A Nash and A Dance
Memory Bubbles from an Endless Summer
“Bell bottom blues you make me cry, I don’t want to lose this feeling. If I could choose a place to die, It would be in your arms…
Eric Clapton’s “Bell Bottom Blues”, with Derek & the Dominoes
There are so many snippets of memories from that summer that just float through the files in my mind’s back pages, without attaching themselves into my mind’s sequential memory chart — they just have “summertime 1971” date-stamped on them, as they pop up when I shine the light upon those memory files. I’ll just report them as they pop up.
Bell Bottom Blues
I hung around the most with Darrel and Cy that summer. We were always up to some sort of trouble together, true partners in crime at times. We got into department store thievery for a little while. It wasn’t because we needed to steal the things — it was more about the thrill of getting away with it. It was a rush, and we were into things that gave us a rush. We got away with stealing some clothes and a football –(Cy told me to go out for a pass, I did, and we all kept running out the door)– mostly out at the mall at South Hills Village.
Darrel and I tried taking our theft act to the Gimbels Department store in downtown Pittsburgh. The store security was better there than it was at the mall.
After we had made several trips into the changing room, and I had a couple pairs of bell bottom pants wrapped around my waist, inside my baggy jeans, we were heading down the escalator when Darrel tapped me on the shoulder from behind and said, “Security is on to us. At the bottom of the escalator, you go right and I’ll go left.”
I had no idea how he knew they were on to us, but I did as instructed. Turned out that he was right. They went after him at the bottom, while I made a clean get-away. My heart was pounding like crazy as I went outside and lost myself in the downtown crowd, found an alley and a dumpster, pulled the stolen bell bottoms out and chucked them into it. Then, I went back inside to find my friend.
I didn’t think he even had anything, but he’d picked a few things up from a rack and stuffed them in his shirt, which was how they’d busted him — they caught him on a store camera. I’d really thought he was smarter than that — he, after all, was the one who’d taught me all the ropes in stealing.
I found the security office. They informed me that my friend was a thief. I played dumb, and said “No way! He’s never stolen anything!” They told me to beat it, but I refused to leave without my friend. Finally, Darrel told me to go ahead and get out of there— they’d called his mother, and he was going to be stuck there until she came for him. I left, still shaking on the inside, knowing how close I’d come to getting busted, and feeling terrible about my friend. That was the end of my career as a thief. That was one rush I never wanted to repeat!
It’s a Nash
I remember riding out to the horse-race track with my friend Tony driving his large buick, with three of us in the backseat and Harry up front with Tony. A joint was being passed around in the car, and I had just taken a toke. While this was going on, an old Rambler Nash car was passing us on the left.
As I passed the joint to the guy beside me, the burning head fell off the end of the joint and onto the seat. The guy beside me started yelling, “Oh my God, it’s an ash, it’s an ash!”, as he hopped around the seat. Tony, driving up front, unaware of what was happening in the backseat, looked out the window to his left, saw the Rambler Nash passing us, and said, “Well, I’ll be damned — it IS a Nash!”
I was the only one who caught the hilarity of that moment — I couldn’t stop laughing about it all the way to the racetrack. No one knew what the hell I was laughing about — but it didn’t matter. They all laughed anyway. They laughed at me laughing about what, they knew not.
A Dance for the Ages
Darrel’s sister got married later that year, and I got invited. We were all suited up, and had a good time at the wedding, which was in the South Side of Pittsburgh, at an old Greek Orthodox Church there.
After the reception, we were still looking for something to do. We were all dressed up on a Saturday night, and still had fire in our bellies for more fun and trouble. Darrel’s sister forgot her plane tickets for their honeymoon, so Darrel had to drive them out to the Flying Carpet Motel, near the airport. Cy, Scotty and I tagged along for the ride.
While Darrel ran the tickets up to his sister’s room, we were all impatiently hanging around the lobby in our suits. We noticed a big bash going on in the ball room, and quickly decided to crash it. There was music, food, booze, and women. We did our best to look like we belonged there, as we strolled in and we found ourselves a table.
Cy and I went over to ask a couple of nice-looking ladies to dance. They shot us down, unceremoniously. We were walking dejectedly back to our table when a gorgeous, older black lady grabbed my hand and said, “Come on, honey — I’ll dance with you!” I couldn’t believe it! She was a knockout, and she had asked ME to dance! This just didn’t happen.
My buddies were floored, as was I, as she and I danced a few numbers together — I couldn’t keep up with her, but did my damnedest to, as a crowd gathered around us, cheering us on. Finally, she smiled and thanked me for the dances, kissed me on the cheek and said, “You’re gonna knock ’em dead, killer!”
I floated back to our table. The guys were still beside themselves at my good fortune. But that wasn’t all of it. A little later, between songs, the MC took the microphone and said, “Ladies and gentleman, we have a special guest with us here tonight. We asked if she could come up and perform a number or two, but the contract with the record company doesn’t allow it — but please join me in giving a warm welcome to Tina Turner, from the Ike and Tina Turner Review!”
Across the room, at another table, up stood the lady I’d danced with earlier! It was Tina Turner! We all fell out at that one, and I had the feeling my luck with ladies was about to turn around. And, it did.
Thanks, Tina!
Originally published at cowbird.com.
