Love makes a person crazy. Young love can make a person downright stupid.
Callie’s father developed his world view looking through the bottom of an endless bevy of bourbon bottles. Her home life was nearly nonexistent, making her attraction to Patrick all that much stronger. Patrick sat behind her in English Lit and next to her in Chemistry and she helped him pass each, mostly through cheating rather than tutoring.
Patrick, for his part, was hard working and honest (except when it came to passing tough subjects), played hard on the football team and worked hard at the Rusty Hammer when he wasn’t with Callie or teammates. He had a talent for music and making Callie laugh and that seemed to be enough at the age of 17.
He’d saved up about $1,500 from the hardware store and with the $700 in combined gifts they received when they graduated from Our Lady of Immeasurable Concern, they were sure that was enough to finance the dream.
They went down to the OK Used Car Lot at Cactus Chevrolet in May of ’67 and spent roughly half of everything they had on a metallic red Pontiac Bonneville convertible that seemed to be as long as it was low and as wide as the space between their dreams and reality. With Callie’s cardboard suitcase in the trunk and Patrick’s guitar on the backseat, they headed west to California, the land where record deals are done and dreams come true.
With the top down, Callie’s blond hair blowing, and her long tan legs tucked up under Daisy Dukes on the dual-toned burgundy vinyl seats, she was the inspiration for a song he was sure would make them rich. After the first night at the hotel in Las Cruces, Patrick wrote the third verse, though he was pretty sure the words of it would never make it on The Ed Sullivan Show once he got his break.
Once in LA, they made several pilgrimages to the Whisky-A-Go-Go hoping to see some stars, or at least rub elbows with someone who could help Patrick become one. Callie still has a yellowed picture of the Pontiac parked in front of the Rocky and Bullwinkle statue on Sunset Boulevard, across from the Chateau Marmont, taken the first week they arrived. That was before the Bonneville blew a head gasket and she actually began working as a waitress at the famed hotel.
At the end of that summer Patrick had to sell either the Pontiac or his guitar, and there was no way the convertible would support them so he took the loss. Only got about $500 for it, although the buyer washed and waxed it and got twice that for it within a week. He found out there was a big difference in Fort Stockton musical talent in LA and musical talent in Fort Stockton. He began drinking for better inspiration.
The following spring, Callie figured if she was going to live with a man with few prospects and a weakness for alcohol, she‘d may as well do it where she didn’t have to waitress to pay rent and called her dad. He sent her a bus ticket home. Patrick came back a year later.
They run into each other at the Piggly Wiggly every now and again. They’re married now, but to other people. The best memories each of them have are the drive to Las Cruces in the Bonneville, when all the possibilities were still in front of them. When their future was as bright as the chrome on the dash, almost blinding them from what was ahead.
10 responses to “BONNEVILLE-A-GO-GO”
I’m gonna tell the truth! I don’t like this one!
My movies end with a kiss and a ride into the sunset!
Or: a knife or a gun, and no more suffering!
Oh, that every tale could have a happy ending. It is those that are bittersweet that make us appreciate even more the ones that are not.
or to misquote Dion Warwick,
… and all the stars that never were,
are parking cars – and pumping gas …
Fort Stockton, San Jose, or middle of nowhere – all the same if you don’t have a viable plan
One lap of America on a nine year old $5 Vespa – trumpet, tuxedo, sleeping bag, and a Musicians’ Union Roster. Memories, education, lessons learned, and an experience unparalleled – then back to get my BS and MBA, a career and a hobby, a cross-country move. All in all, looking in the rear view mirror, a good run,
… and still some gas in the tank …
What does the future hold?
I’ll pass through Fort Stockton on the way to Tucson in November,
but first — old car week at Hershey – buy antiques, sell “junque”, teach Continuing Judge Education, visit with friends, have a bit to eat and drink, and hope the next system in the Caribbean doesn’t louse up our plans, or cause serious damage like the folks in the southeast are dealing with in the aftermath of Hurricane Helene.
Wishing a Sweet Year to our friends who celebrate Rosh Hashanah
The roads chosen and the roads not taken. Both can stir memories of what was or what will never be.
Are we the sum of the choices we’ve made, or was it all predestined before we took our first breath?
I know what Callie would say every time she sees Patrick by chance in the Piggly Wiggly.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
It seems as though memories have been stoked deep within the Bald Bomber. It’s not often he’ll go all poetic on you.
One has to wonder whether it’s the Bonneville or the blond.
Oh, it’s the Bonneville, all right-
More than enough blonds to go around,
or have gone around(?)
Harder to find a pristine Bonneville convertible (than a pristine blond(?))
… I’ll have the next year’s 1961 Bonneville convertible, if you please,
.. and that can attract more blonde, brunette, auburn, and even grey-locked honeys than you could shake a “schtick” at
It’s the blonde. The one sitting at the bar of the Crockett Hotel in San Antonio. She seems to have eyes for some other guy, though . . .
Ah, yes. Yes she does.
The Silver Dog was even slower a trip than the Bonneville