Strangers On the Bus

by DC Stanfa

"Don't talk to strangers on the bus ... until you bring your groovy self on home to me," Nancy Sinatra sang to Elvis in the 1968 movie, Speedway.

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My freshman year at E.L. Bowsher High School was devoted to three things. First, I was still recovering from the brain-spanking of Catholic school. Which brought me to the second thing, exploring the new freedom that meant. Public high school had fewer boundaries and more choices. Being a teenager I had already made some poor choices. I'd taken my parents' new 1973 Malibu around my south-Toledo neighborhood the summer before freshman year in an attempt to be cool. I sideswiped a few neighbors' cars. This brought me to the third thing that consumed my life freshman year, working my ass off to repay $750 in damages to my parents' and neighbors' vehicles. Which ironically limited my new freedom.

I babysat so much I was sure I'd never want children of my own. I also mowed grass and shoveled snow. Luckily, I was breezing through classes without ever taking a book home. Catholic school had covered most of the curriculum in junior high. While I was quickly paying off my debt I didn't realize that I was missing a critical area of concentration for all teenagers' formative years, finding out where I fit in. The little free time I had was spent with my sisters, hanging-out and watching cool TV shows like Don Kirshner's Rock Concert and The Sonny and Cher Show. Older sister Lori made it clear that I was not to "hang around" her or her "popular" friends while at school. My younger sister Sherry had two more years until high school.

I ate lunch in the cafeteria with my one friend from St. Peter's that opted, along with me, to escape Catholic high school. Her parents couldn't afford the tuition. But, Connie had a steady boyfriend, a carry-over from St. Peter's. He was in the all-boys Jesuit high school. Outside of school, she "hung out" with him.

Although my little drive around the block had cost me in the short run, I tried to look at it from a longer-term learning perspective. I had merely waded knee deep in the stupidity pool and gained invaluable insight into what might be lurking in the deep end. It was full of scary creatures named Consequences. Consequences are not predatory. You can only fall victim by your own choice.

Submersed in this thought, I consequently began looking for fun friends sophomore year, when my "accident" debt was finally paid. My auditions were conducted by sitting at different lunch tables in the school cafeteria. Apparently the "good friend" parts had been filled. Individual drama groups emerged as a result of freshman year typecasting calls. They were called cliques. There were the jocks, the socials, the geeks and the burn-outs. I was a clique of one, a sophomore in search of an understudy role for the high school "play" that opened freshman year.

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I listened intently to Tara Fulkerson as I choked down a coney dog. She was babbling on about cheerleading practice. "Jennifer Jewel really heffed up over the summer. I mean, she must have put on about ten pounds. She'll never make it to Varsity. She might even get kicked off the J.V. squad if she can't do the jumps."  So, the cheerleaders don't always stick together, I thought. Tara acted like Jennifer's best friend when they were together.

"Anyway, we're gonna start on the homecoming float next Saturday. We're building it in Diane Gerkin's garage," said Betsy Lidel, a cheerleader who was also sophomore class VP. I had no plans for Saturday or any other day I could think of. "What time?" I thought, out loud. Several of their glances were curious, several disapproving and two girls chose to continue to ignore me. "And you are—?" Tara grilled. "Uh, DC Stanfa."  "Are you Lori's sister?"  asked Betsy.  Betsy's boyfriend, a gorgeous blue-eyed, black-haired, varsity wide receiver, sat next to her. He stroked her back as she spoke. "Yeah," I answered. I'd figured they already knew, which was the only reason they allowed me to sit at the table in the first place.

"Haven't I seen you riding a unicycle to school?" Tara rolled her eyes a bit at the other girls. "Uh, yeah, I ride it if the weather is decent."  I didn't know why I should be embarrassed, but I was. "That's kind of weird," Tara concluded for the group as they all went back to ignoring me. And you wear a stupid little uniform and let guys stick their hands up your skirt and lift you into the air in front of a couple of thousand people. Who's weird?

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Saturday night arrived, I'd turned down two babysitting jobs. However, I did not go to the homecoming float "party."  Lori was at the juniors' float gig. Little sis, Sherry, was spending the night at a friend's. I was lying on my bed reading Jonathan Livingston Seagull. My mood ring was black. Mom and Dad were watching All in the Family in the living room. There was a tentative tap on the bedroom door, which was slightly ajar. My dad pushed it open further and poked his head in. I put the book down and turned on my side, facing the door, propping myself up on my left elbow. Although his eyes were full of concern, he wasn't going to ask me why I didn't have plans or suggest I call a friend to come over. We'd been through that before.

He sat down, softly, and said, "Cool Hand Luke is coming on at nine. Why don't you watch it with us? Your mom is going to pop some corn and I'll hard-boil some eggs."  He was making a joke. Dad's favorite Paul Newman movie and my favorite scene was where he eats 50 eggs for the entertainment of his fellow prisoners.

My dad looked a little like Paul Newman, similar nose and cheekbone structure. But he had dark brown eyes and hair, like me. He didn't care that he was handsome and had no desire to be famous outside our family. Dad was spending more time at home the past couple years after a D.U.I. and my mom threatening divorce. The first dozen years of the marriage he stayed out with the boys after work either golfing or bowling or just drinking. Having recently survived his own growing-up pains he was very empathetic with mine.

He saw through my smile, though he kept his going, as he took my right hand. "Things a little rough right now?"  It was an obvious and a rhetorical question. "You know, when it's too rough for everybody else, it's just about right for us Stanfas."   Never having been in the military, he did a pretty good Patton impression. "Yeah, we're tough," I mocked, unconvincingly. "You just don't know how tough you are."  He wasn't kidding anymore.

"I'll show you. Here, squeeze my hand. Squeeze it as hard as you possibly can."  I returned his grip with all my might, channeling my depression into the palm of his hand, hoping he might free me from it. "Is that all you've got? Are you squeezing as hard as you possibly can?"  My face grimaced in concentration as I nodded, yes. "Okay, now. I want you to squeeze just a little bit harder. C'mon. you can do it."  My dad was a pretty smart man. I felt an added surge of energy as my grip tightened around his hand. Where did that come from?

"When you're sure you're trying as hard as you can, don't give up. Try even harder," Dad said. This "hang-tough" wisdom was historically imparted to boys. Dad's mom, my Grandma Stanfa, raised three boys by herself and worked in a factory to support them. So, he understood women had to be tough too, sometimes.

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In the weeks and months following my get-a-better-grip lesson from Dad, I began a psychological study of the leftovers and misfits that didn't belong in the clique groupings. There were several in each of my classes. I made a point to get to know them each a little better. There were a few painfully shy types that I couldn't draw out. There were also a couple that were so confident in themselves they were ambivalent or above the whole high school fitting-in process. I admired them greatly.

I found common ground with Janice Meyer, Robin Lewis and Molly Mingey. They, like me, had siblings a year older, that were more popular than them. Janice's sister dated a football player. Robin's brother was a hunk, really cool. He was also in the "social" clique of the class of '76. All of us girls, except Molly, were middle children. Janice was in art class with me and Molly and Robin were in my English class.

There were similarities along with obvious differences. Janice Meyer had hills, make that mountains, the size of the Rockies. My chest was as flat as the Northwest Ohio terrain. Rumor was that boys climbed in her bedroom window and reached new elevations. She was an unlikely friend, since my sexuality had not surfaced. My hormones were dormant in an underground cavern. Some glands showed seismic activity, however, as my face had struck oil.

Robin and Molly were friends since freshman year. Robin was a classic blonde beauty, but broke stereotype with her intelligence. Molly was a flower child, from a wealthy family, youngest of four sibs. Her parents were as old as my grandparents and traveled extensively. Molly's trademark was her huge mane of auburn hair. She looked like she belonged on a Woodstock poster.

By early spring, the four of us were hanging out at McDonald's together and attending house parties we'd hear about, where cliques actually intermingled. Jocks and socials and burn-outs, oh my! The "three-middle-children-and-a-baby" clique provided me with a social foundation. I finally had plans.

Sometimes, when Molly's parents were out of town, the four of us would spend the entire weekend at her house. She had the best record collection of anyone I knew and her older brother and sisters had ongoing parties a lot of these weekends. We blended in by drinking and smoking like everyone else. We even got in on a couple of spin-the-bottle games.

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Another common denominator among my new friends was that we all got easily bored. We even got tired of hanging out at Molly's pool by early summer. Janice had the solution. "I'm going to visit my Aunt next month. She lives on a ranch in Colorado. Why don't you guys see if you can go too?"  Wow, I've been to Michigan a lot and even Canada a few times on family vacations. But, Colorado, how cool!

Luckily, I had very cool parents and had already developed some persuasive ability. The truth was that my parents were so relieved that I'd stopped moping around and had some friends, it only took a phone call from my mom to Janice's for them to approve the proposed venture. Molly and Robin were given the green light as well.

The parents all agreed a plane ride might be safer. Molly and Robin's parents could afford to ante up for the pricey tickets, $275. Janice and I could barely swing the $85, round-trip bus fare to Steamboat Springs. Being an all-for-one group, Molly and Robin decided the bus ride would be more of an adventure. They wouldn't be wrong.

Continued—»