1966 - A Gay Old Time

1966 - A Gay Old Time

There I was covered in grey, sticky mud up to my knees. My nicely tuxedoed knees. As I stood on one foot trying to retrieve my rented shoe from the mud to where it had disappeared in the last few seconds, I thought about the circumstances that had put me in the middle of farmer’s fallow field in the wee hours of the morning. I leaned against the well-stuck car and reflected on how happy dad would be when he saw his new Malibu covered with grey mud…not very.

I looked around. There was not much to see in the dark at around 3:30 AM. Prom night – my Junior Prom. Debbie and I had attended the dance and had a wonderful time. Thereafter we proceeded to the Dunes Lodge where many of us had our late supper and some of us proceeded to the Dunes Theatre for a movie, the name of which I have long since forgotten as we did not attend. Debbie was tired after our long evening and, with a picnic planned for early the next morning at Petrifying Springs Park in Wisconsin, she wanted to get a couple of hours shut-eye before we headed for the picnic. I dropped her off at her house around 3:00 AM and headed home.

A few blocks from home I realized that I was not tired - not in the least. I did know that if I went to bed I would have a hard time getting up but had nothing in mind to keep me occupied…when Jack and his date drove by. Jack lived at the bitter end of a road that ran out to the family farm. Knowing who it was, knowing where he was going and looking for something to do, on a lark I followed Jack. I stayed about a block back so as not to be too obvious and not to disturb either him or his date. I had just passed the last available road when I realized there was no where to turn around ahead of me except a quarter-of-a-mile ahead…Jack’s driveway – where I really didn’t want to go.

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a tractor path that ran off into a farmer’s fallow field. Instantly deciding this was my only chance to get turned around I spun the wheel to the right and charged into the path intending to perform a 3-point reversal. As I began to apply the brakes to stop and throw the vehicle in reverse I realized I would be stopping in a deep and obviously very soft mud puddle in which I would probably get quickly and securely stuck. Hitting the gas I plunged on intending to follow this path to the logical end: a short neighborhood street only accessible from State-Line Road. With a couple of hours to kill that would be acceptable. I slid down the path keeping the speed high enough to maintain forward momentum riding the edge between stuck/stopped and motivating forward through the thick mud which was being thrown several feet into the air as the rear wheels dug in and forced their way through the grass, mud and the occasional waver in the relatively straight path. I could feel the mud pulling at the tires trying desperately to bog us down in the middle of a farmer’s field where neither it nor I wanted me to be.

I was feeling pretty good about my ability to complete this course when my headlights lit up a curve in the path. As I got closer I realized it wasn’t just a turn in the path it was a 90-degree turn that was going to require a certain amount of wrestling with the slightly underpowered vehicle, sucking mud, and the physics that want to keep a moving object moving in whatever direction it is currently moving. I stomped the brake to reduce my speed slightly and enable the vehicle to navigate the corner, instantly releasing it and hitting the gas to push the speed back up to traveling speed. I slid around the corner like it was banked and I was a pro. The road I was seeking should be just a few dozen feet ahead. My confidence soared. I was going to make it! When the first vehicle appeared in front of me I assumed there would be room to go around but when I scanned both left and right I realized that, although I had successfully navigated through the sucking mud and made it to the foot of the road for which I had been looking, the little house at the end of the road was engaged in a party. The participants had completely blocked the road thinking, usually correctly, that there would be no need to keep the field unblocked. They were parked everywhere leaving no access to the road just beyond.

As this was a private party in a home of which I was not familiar and the party sounded distinctly adult with laughter, clinking glasses and 50’s style dance music. I neither wanted to disturb an event to which I was not invited nor did I want to look like a total idiot driving through a muddy field in the middle of the night. When I know I am acting foolish I hesitate to advertise the fact as people get to witness those kinds of acts quite enough without any help from me.

I was Mr. Confidence. I decided if I could make it through the field one time I could certainly make it back through. I backed up close to the nearest vehicle and hit the gas intending to hit the path at a rate of speed that would send around the slippery corner and onto the straight and muddy. I didn’t count on tires so full of mud they spun more than pushed me. Although there was a much less forward momentum than expected I was past committed and would find it necessary to power through the curve and get speed up to push through the rest of the field. I could feel the lack in power as the front wheels turned to navigate the corner. As they sunk in I gently feathered the gas peddle trying to keep just enough momentum up to get past this obstruction and move in a direction in which I could get my speed up. I was more concerned with the mud puddle at the end of this path then the path itself. I certainly needed to get my speed back up after…I felt the rear end break loose and slide sideways as the front tires dug in and began to bury themselves in the soft, gooey mud. I slid to a stop in a short slip that represented the few inches from the top of the gouged-out curve to the bottom of the gauged out pit. It was quite enough to bring me to a complete stop. The car stalled and went silent. I was 50 feet from the end of the road and surrounded by what was, from my driving, an obviously REALLY muddy field.

I re-started the car and tried rocking it loose. I sent a lot of mud skyward. The only direction we moved was…down a few more inches. I forced the door open scrapping it against the tall grass and looked at the surface with the inside car light for illumination. It looked perfectly dry. Hoping the path had collected moisture leaving the field generally dry I extended a foot a placed it firmly in the ground. No problem! As I swung my other leg out I put weight on the outside foot which sunk an inch into soft soil. My caution renewed I tentatively put a bit more weight on my feet which sunk the same inch or so but seemed fairly stable. Confident I stood up and promptly sunk another six inches. In the illumination of the cab light my shoes had disappeared. Where they were supposed to be were dark spots in the shape of shoes. These were the holes into which my feet had disappeared. It wasn’t like I had a choice…I sat and thought as I pulled at my left foot…I was going to have to walk through this field one way or the other. I hadn’t pulled my feet back as the sucking mud held my shoes firmly in place.

My left shoe suddenly came loose and I placed it on the edge of the car door jamb preparing to stand. I put weight on my left foot and stood. My right foot was still held firmly by the heavy mud. As I readjusted my weight my right foot sunk deeper. Keeping my balance I quickly placed the other foot on the ground for stability. My left foot sunk to an equivalent level. Standing up to my ankles in mud I slogged toward the rear of the vehicle. On the second step I lost my right shoe which insisted on staying put when I pulled my foot free. Now, standing on my left foot and bending down to tug at my shoe I lost my balance and fell backwards, my rear end landing heavily against the rear door saving a full-body plummet into the muddy morass of which I wanted so urgently to be free. I contemplated my situation. I bent forward on one leg to get a firm grasp on the offending shoe. I pulled. Nothing. I pulled again jerking on the shoe with my full arm strength. I felt it move but it was still held firmly in place. Bending further I secured my grasp with two hands and tightened my fingers as I pulled backwards. I continued to resist until, with a loud sucking noise the shoe came loose. I wind-milled backwards in an attempt to regain my balance and, over compensating, fell forward. I landed with my full weight on my knees saving my forward plunge but now firmly stuck in mud…up to my knees.

Resigned to my fate I dragged myself to my feet and slogged around to the rear tires which were buried up to the axle. Stuffing found wood and pulled grass under the rear wheels I made it back to the driver’s seat to apply enough gas to watch my rear tires spun ineffectively in place as the wood shot out of sight and I continued throwing more mud to the rear. This was not getting any better. I had managed to sink a couple of inches lower and the car door was now firmly held open by the encroaching muck. It didn’t take too long to figure out my fate. It was time to interrupt that party and see if I could find assistance of some kind. I stopped at the edge of the field to knock and scrape as much mud off of me as possible.

The sounds of the party got louder as I approached the back door to the little house. I knocked. I knocked again, louder this time. I heard a voice and footsteps approaching. The door opened. Before me stood a unique individual. He stood above me arms akimbo, me on the step and him standing in the kitchen. Even so, he appeared to be about my height perhaps taller by an inch or so. He stood thin and straight with a little blonde moustache and a flat top haircut. His shoulders were approximately as wide as my own but spare with no extra meat. He was narrow-waisted with a rear-end about the size of two clenched fists held side-by-side. This picture was completed by two tiny little feet. My first impression was he was a human wedge: wide shoulders tapering to a thin waist and tiny little feet. He opened his mouth, “Hello! Where did you come from on a night like this? My you’re just covered with mud! Here! Take your shoes off and come in! Oh my! Here, sit on this newspaper!” He seemed to vibrate in place as he scooped a newspaper off a pile next to the back door and, opening a page spread it across the seat of a chair that sat at the kitchen table. “Now there, what’s the problem? How can I help you? Would you like a drink?”

I sat heavily on the offered seat. “No, thank-you, I’m not 18 yet.” I replied to his inquiry.

“Oh that’s ok, I won’t tell. Wouldyoulikeacoke then?”

“Sure, love one.”

He turned toward the refrigerator opening the door, “Now, what can we do for you?” He asked over his shoulder.

I quickly relayed my story and the problem.

“Oh, that’s ok.” He replied, “You’re not the first to be stuck in that field. Oh! I’ve got a friend with a tow truck. Would you like me to call him?” I replied positively and he made a quick telephone call. While he was on the telephone I looked around.

There were perhaps 10-15 people present all engaged in conversation or dancing to the music coming from the next room where most of them were. Although the women present seemed outnumbered slightly by 1 or 2 men there appeared to be a fairly even match of men to women as far as I could see. As I didn’t know anyone here I didn’t consider joining in but sat and contemplated my fate at the hands of my parents. I sat passively watching the party in the next room. The longer I watched the dancers the more something just didn’t seem “right.” I was hit like a ton of bricks when I came to a shocking conclusion: Not all of those women are women. About half the people here are cross-dressers.

I had no opinion at that time regarding alternate lifestyles as my family preached every individual was distinct and deserving of respect until proven otherwise. For this reason I didn’t find myself in an uncomfortable situation: they were all very friendly and concerned about my welfare, there were no insinuations that I participate except the offer of a drink and except for some unconventional modes of dress and the fact that I’d never seen men dance together, no one, except the host, was paying much attention to me. I watched, fascinated by the experience. The tow truck driver showed up in a short time and we proceeded to my car.

He confirmed that this was not the first time he had hauled a car out of this spot as we slogged out to dad’s car and hooked up the hook and wire to the undercarriage of the vehicle. As it was a bit chilly he offered me a seat in the cab of his truck while we pulled the muddy mess out of the field and onto the lawn of my temporarily new friends. There was now plenty of room as several people had left the party temporarily to move their cars into less intrusive locations. As we sat in the cab the driver seemed nervous for some reason as he tried to hold a halting shuffling conversation until he paused and looked at me, “Did they tell you I was their friend?” He mumbled.

“Yeah.” I replied.

“They tell everyone that!” He exclaimed. “They are not my friends!”

Personally I wasn’t sure why he was so adamant regarding his social relationship with people whom I had identified as very nice, honestly concerned and well-behaved people. Their idea of partying wasn’t the same as mine but I had always been taught by mom to accept people at face value until proven otherwise and, as I’ve mentioned, these people seem quite nice.

The driver towed me onto the dry road and I assume I paid him from the emergency money I had been carrying in case it was needed. Thank mom for making sure I had money in my pocket! I drove directly home with the dusk brightening with every passing minute. As I entered the house mom appeared from the parental bedroom. After a quiet conversation and a change of clothes she handed me a couple of bucks and told me to run down to the local carwash and get dad’s car cleaned up. Following that I picked Debbie up and we proceeded to the picnic and had a wonderful time.

I don’t actually recall if dad ever figured out how muddy the car had been but I’m pretty sure that the tux people figured it out on Monday evening when I handed the clerk a pristine suit bag, white coat showing through the 3” transparent panel. As he could feel the weight of the shoes in the bag he took it easily and hung it from a hook with several similar looking suit-bags. I felt a rush of relief as he hung the tux up with no comment and hoped he wouldn’t notice the condition of the mud-covered cummerbund which was in a bag with all of the ancillary pieces including studs, cufflinks and mud-spotted bowtie. I held the bag with the extra parts in my hand until I had signed the receipt and received my copy that said I had returned the suit. As I turned to leave the clerk said, “Excuse me is that the extra pieces?” I looked at my hand, nodded and handed him the bag containing all of the extras. They were in the bag in which they had originally been issued to me. “Thank-you.” He said and I turned to go. As the door to the shop closed I glanced over my shoulder. There stood the clerk peering into the open bag, mouth open in disbelief. As his head came up and began to swivel toward the exit I ran like the wind for the car.

They may still be looking for me.