I was too self-conscious to date in high school. I didn’t have a girlfriend. I did have lots of girl friends. White Bear Lake had a nice movie theater downtown, called the Avalon. I got a job as an usher there. I like and am good with kids. Paul, the owner had a son about five years old. Big Paul would bring little Paul to theater some Saturdays. Big Paul would do paperwork in his office above the theater. Big Paul thought Little Paul would be entertained by the cartoons we’d run for the Saturday matinees. I didn’t think a young kid should be left alone. As an Usher, I stood on duty inside the seating area so I watched the little boy, Little Paul didn’t always like the cartoons and would start running abound, So I’d take him out in the lobby and play games or tell him stories. I was his babysitter. Paul had fun so sometimes he’d ask his dad to take him to the theater. I guess because of that, big Paul liked me and in 6 months promoted me to manager.
So, what’s this have to do with girls? Besides not dating, I never went to a party or dance. One Friday night there was going to be a special dance. It wasn’t the prom, but you were supposed to ask a girl to the dance. On the Monday before the dance, I was by my locker at school. A girl friend, came over and talked to me.
She sighed. “Are you going to the dance this weekend?” I’m not, I guess.” She gave another exaggerated sigh. “No one has asked me to be their date.” Another sigh.
“No,” I said. “I work all weekend.” She put on a sad and disappointed look. I didn’t want to, and couldn't ask her out, but felt sorry for her. “Wait,” I said. “Why don’t you come down to the Avalon that night. Come for the second show. The balcony will be closed but I’ll sneak you up there. After the show we’ll get some pizza.”
She bounced on her toes and grinned. “That would be great she said. The bell rang and we both hurried to class.
A couple of class periods later, I was at my locker when another girl friend told me about how she was sad she wasn’t going to the dance. I gave her the same option had given my other friend. By the end of the week, I was feeling good that I had lifted the spirits a little bit of six friends.
That Friday night was slow. I think the movie was Dr. Zhivago. My first friend came early. She wanted to chat, but I told her I was working. I gave her a bag of popcorn and sent her up to the balcony to watch the show.
Not long after that, another friend came. Same thing. I gave her popcorn and pointed to the balcony. For the next four, I was at the entrance taking tickets. I signaled the concession staff and sent the friends inside.
The second show ended. The two ushers, the candy girl and I did a quick clean and they left. Six girls walked down the balcony steps. None of them were happy, they argued and tried to overtalk each other. For a split second, there was silence and then the shouting and finger pointing started.
One of them half shouted, “All right Mr. Blumer, which one of us is your date?”
I sucked in and blew out a big breath. “I am so sorry. I’m at fault. I was just trying to do something nice for all of you. It’s not a date. You’re all gorgeous, you should have lots of guys who are dying to take you out. You’re all my friends. I just thought we could have some pizza and enjoy the night.”
There was a lot of murmuring, and huddling. The huddle broke and my friend Debbie spoke. “Michael, you are so dumb. Too dumb to ask for a date so you could make out with us. You’re just dumb enough to be a nice guy.”
I could feel that I was blushing. “Thanks, I guess,” I said. “You’re wrong though. I’m not dumb. I’m stupid. And there’s another problem. I rode my motorcycle.”
“I’ve got my mom’s station wagon. Pizza? Follow me.” She headed for the door, with all five girls.
We had fun at the pizza place. There was a lot of laughing , talking and story sharing. The girls called themselves ‘Mike’s Crew.’ As a group we’d flatten the rear seat of Debbie’s station wagon so we could all fit. We hung out at the Maplewood drive-in theater. Debbie would park backwards, and we’d snuggle a bit in pillows and a comforter. It was a nice senior year.
The Crew disbanded after graduation. I still wasn’t much of a dater. The same inadequate feelings haunted me. I did start dating a little. Phyllis was one of the early ones. For out first date, she worked in the soda fountain in the back of Reed’s Drugstore. For the date I picked her up and drove her home so she could change clothes.
As I drove, I noticed a Mustang Convertible following me. It would accelerate until it was ten feet behind, then rapidly brake to trail behind. After it did that a couple of times, I turned off the main road, drove through a residential neighborhood and then cut back to my initial route. The Mustang followed.
Phyllis asked where I was going. I told her I was trying to shake a couple of guys in a car that was following us.
Phyllis glanced out the back window. “Oh, don’t mind him,” she said and settled into her seat. “That’s just Bernie, my boyfriend and his buddy. Ignore them.”
“Boyfriend?” I asked.
“Well, almost ex-boyfriend.”
“I didn’t think you… Never mind,” I said and drove her home. When I stopped in her driveway, the Mustang parked across it, blocking me. We weren’t sitting more than a minute, when Phyllis’s mother came out the front door. She marched halfway down the driveway, waiving her arms. “Bernie, go home or I’ll call your mother,” she shouted.
Phyllis got out of the car. I rolled down my window. I didn’t know if I should get out of my car or just go. I left the engine off and rolled down my window. Her mother came over and introduced herself.
“I’m Mrs. Linde, Phyllis’s mother. Give me your phone number. If you want to take my daughter on a date, first I need to speak with your parents.”
I gave her our home number and left.
Later in my dating life with Phyllis, we were driving down a road near her house. We were having some sort of an argument. Phyllis got mad. She wore my high school ring on a chain around her neck. She unfastened the chain and threw my ring out the window. That ring cost me about twenty lawn grass cuttings. That hurt.
Another argument after we had just exited the McDonalds’ drive through. Phyllis ordered the fillet of fish. Again, angry about something, she threw it. It was winter, so this toss wasn’t out the window. It was at the window. The sandwich hit my windshield, and the fish went down the slots of my defroster. For a long time, when I defrosted my windshield, the car smelled like rotten fish.
Near her house was a street with the real name, ‘Joy Road.’ The city of North St. Paul renamed it because it was the most frequently stolen sign in the city. The road dead ended at a park and was s popular ‘necking’ spot. Phyllis and I were parked there. It was dark outside. Someone tapped on my window and a flashlight beamed light into the front seat. It was a policeman.
I rolled down my window, and the Cop removed his light from my eyes. “What are you two doing here?” he asked in a gruff voice.
“Just having a little argument. Isn’t that obvious,” I snaped back.
“Oh,” he said a bit sheepishly. “Cary on.”
Apparently, he didn’t want to argue with Phyllis either.
