Not So Sweet Sixteen

NOT SO SWEET SIXTEEN
By: Terry D. Roehrig II


I remember when I was about to turn sixteen. Ah, sixteen. The age when the young male mind turns to mush. Cars, babes….and not much else. Yeah…..that was so not me. When I turned sixteen…I thought of exams, finals, S.A.T.’s. Yep…you guessed it…. Dork City! Population? Me. My brother, the cool one, HE was the one who thought of tramps on trampolines, babes off Broadway, chicks innn…carcerated? The only woman I wanted was the mail lady. She delivered my “Scientific Weekly” magazine. *sigh* I’ll never forget the day I asked her to Prom. Those were the days. Worrying about your test scores, your academic accomplishments, your future well-being. Thanks again F-CAT. Loving my career as an Astronautic Engineer Trainer! The town bum could tell you your future better than that damn test! Bernie (that’s what us high-schoolers called him…the middle-schoolers called him “Reeker”, but us high-schoolers were more mature than that) always told me that I would become the town prophet. “I predict that you’ll be nothing more than a big pile of STINK!” I always said. How was I to know that he would later become governor?

Sixteen’s a tough age in the first place. Bodies changing, hormones telling you that you want this, brain’s telling you that you want that….“you know what” telling you that you want…..well…. you know. High school, puberty, dating, dances….man, what an age! I was raised on the belief that you find someone to “date” through high school, go to Prom together, graduate, marry and start breeding as soon as humanly possible. One minor detail… at the age of sixteen… I could care LESS about the opposite sex. Please, don’t take that the wrong way. Of course I fantasized about the hottest girl in my grade, of course I daydreamed about that hot little number who sat in front of me in Drama class (Hey Erica! ::imitates his best seductive look:: “How have you been, honey??” ). But…. To have your ENTIRE life mapped out by the time high school is over?? I don’t think so. Yeah, sure, I had my experiences of skipping school, getting in trouble, dealing with the principal and other miscellaneous adventures (To experience ALL of Terry’s escapades from the VERY beginning, please purchase the new ultra-graphic, ultra-violent, not that sexy, but indeed ultra-funny, TERRY: THE LEGEND #1, coming soon to outstanding story-selling shelves near you…only $2.95!! $1.95 if you have a coupon) …however, to have everything planned out… like a setup….? Or a stage play? What fun is that?? I was every parents’ DREAM child. Perfect grades, complete nerds for friends, would rather attend the Science Fair than the OVERNIGHT Church Lock-In. The kind of kid who would rather count the number of films Burt Reynolds has done (over 100 and counting….not including TV movies or series…take THAT, Adam Sandler!!) than go out and whack some silly ball around. Sad? Maybe. Stupid? Absolutely not. Responsible? You bet your ass! That was me, that was my life…as a kid. That night before my sixteenth birthday… I had a revelation! Well, maybe it was that bad burrito from Taco Bell that I ate just before bed, but…. still, either way… it was pretty darn freaky!

Old Indian wise men say that a “revelation” is something that comes to you in time of great need. That the “spirits” are there to “guide” you to a better understanding of life. They are the seekers of life. And believe you me, I was seriously in need of a life! A free-bodied spirit that visited me as I slept. I’ll never forget it. I was fifteen and 11/12th. The very next day, I would be sixteen, A MAN. Legal driver’s license and all. Able to leave with a woman anytime I pleased. I had the mustache and goatee on layaway. It becomes mine, all mine, tomorrow…. I can’t wait! Now, back to this revelation of mine. No, it wasn’t Heather Locklear, or Farrah Fawcett, or Daisy Duke, dammit. Don’t I wish! I think I would have had something else other than a revelation, if you know what I mean. <wink, wink> Nope, my revelation came from “The Bandit” himself! There he was in all of his pre-1985 glory. You know, before he start “letting himself go”. Still “The Man”, if you will. This giant Burt Reynolds head was just hovering over my bed. Kinda blurry, like his career looked in the early 90’s and then to perfect focus, kinda like he is now in the 2000’s. It wigged me out at first, but then I had feeling, a feeling that he belonged there to “assist” me. His voice boomed to me:
“Terry-man, are you in there, son? Talk to me, my boy!”
I panicked. Who the hell is this big floating disembodied head talking to…. certainly not me….. back under the covers I went.

The next day not a word was mentioned. Not to my Mom, not to my Dad, not even to my very best friend (which is surprising because my best friend confided in me once that he was in love with Ariel from “The Little Mermaid”….hey, come to think of it…..I am too. Who wouldn’t want that hot piece of tuna?). Um…er….perhaps I should continue. It was from that very next day that I started to look at life a little bit differently. I was a little bit more daring, I was a little bit more risky. Rather than sit at home doing nothing on Friday and Saturday nights, I was participating in my friends’ rituals. I cannot tell you guys EVERYTHING that we did (law permitting, ya know) nor can I tell you guys EXACTLY what we did, but I can tell you this: it was damn fun! And when I tell you that it was fun…..trust me, it was fun. I am not talking about completing the crossword puzzle fun, I am talking about shooting fireworks off in someone’s mailbox or garage fun. I may have already said too much. So….my friends, this is where in fact, our true story begins…a revelation, a new lease on life, a new person, if you will….I had just turned 16. I had an “encounter“. And I was just given a 1989 Chevy Cavalier convertible. Big mistake.

My friends and I used that convertible to the fullest extent of the law…..or fullest extent of the lawless, I should say. I would be driving while my friends were standing in the passenger seat shooting Roman Candles in front of us or behind us. I’ll never forget the day when one of the “candles” shot up into a tree and fell back into the car. I am still impressed with my driving skills to this day. Four of my friends from High School are still alive to express their expertise testimonies. You are welcome, Mr. Rustin David Waller. Before I can continue, I have to say this. Rustin David Waller is without a doubt, my best friend ever. Bar none. I teased “Rusty” quite a bit. Mainly about his car - he drove a ….. well, you know what? I don’t know exactly what he drove…..all I know is that it was his Mom’s and it sucked. It was a “boat” and we raced often. And he often lost. And I often made fun of him because of it. On the eve of my sixteenth birthday, he and some other friends decided to take me out - to “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” no less. A theater in Tampa (about 40 miles from where we were) was screening it at Midnight. I was driving my new V6 convertible, way-too-cool car with me and about 3 other people. He was to stay over at my house after the movie. He had about 3 other friends that rode with him. So, there we were…. 8 friends, approx. age(s) 15 - 17, a night out, 2 cars, an “R” rated movie and afterwards everyone would return home and Rusty and I would share venture back to my house, spend the night, share hopes, dreams, etc. until we fell asleep. Yeah, right. I think “Murphy’s Law” states that “The more you plan something, the more unplanned the night gets.” And nothing proved more right than that very night.

Everything was going as planned - a more daring, a more risk-taking, a more adventurous “me”. After my birthday party cleared out and the three friends that I hand-selected stayed - we were ready for a night out on the town and a screening of “The Rocky Horror Picture Show”. Rusty came back to my house with three more friends…..only he was NOT driving his Mom’s car. He was driving his stepfather’s TRUCK. That’s right. Rusty wanted to give me a taste of my own medicine. No longer would he be stuck in his Mom’s “boat” sucking my exhaust fumes. He had his father’s truck. And let me tell you folks, this was no ordinary truck. Oh, no. I could tell the instant he pulled up in my driveway and revved the engine - there were shrubs in my yard that would never grow in the same direction ever again. What he was driving could not even be called an automobile….to put it frankly, it was a friggin’ BEAST. Myself looking forward to the evening ahead, I did not care if Rusty came by sea, air or scooter, for that matter, as long as he was THERE. And THERE he was - in the “Rusty-Mobile”. The only thing special about the “Rusty-Mobile” is that it was owned by Rusty and it had to have at least a V200 engine. Is that possible??? You know what??? I don’t know and more importantly… I didn’t care! The trip there was mildly amusing, to put it at best. Jokes were told, stories were exchanged, blah blah blah. We arrived safely, isn’t that what matters most?? Well, that and we didn’t break any laws getting there. Is mooning the car driving next to you against the law? I think it might be, but doggone it, we had fun doing it. The expressions on some of the faces were priceless! (See them all now at www.moonedfaces.com - Only $9.95 for a monthly membership!)

We arrived far ahead of our schedule - partly due to the fact that I wanted to get the hell off the highway after the Moon-A-Palooza. I did not want to spend my 16th birthday in juvie, if you know what I mean. So, there we were. Me and my 7 friends. Now….me and a couple of friends have already been to this particular screening at this particular theater a couple of months prior. So, please, tell me why… this particular theater attendant denied access to us THIS time around? Strict “R” rating? Harsher policies enforced by the theaters? Nah, that woman just wanted to piss me off on my birthday is my guess. Guess what…she succeeded. Pissed off does not explain my wrath that night, let me tell you. I endured so much just getting to the theater alone (there’s only so much male ass one man can stand to see on any given night) …nothing on-screen could have warped this fragile little mind. My friend who was buying the tickets came back to me and informed me that we were not able to get into the show that night.
“Hey, the ticket lady won’t let us in.” he said reluctantly.
“Excuse me?” was my brilliant retort.
Why is it that if you hear something you don’t want to hear you have to extra-dramatize it with attitude? Like if you say it that way, things will change, right? Not that night, anyway. I put on my best “Dirty Harry” face and walked up to the ticket counter lady. Be afraid, be very afraid. Or not.

“Excuse me,” I politely started. “I would like to purchase some tickets for tonight’s show.”
“And which show would that be, sir?” the ticket lady asked.
“Rocky Horror,” I calmly stated.
“I.D., please, sir,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” I brilliantly acted. “I.D.? What for?”
“Sorry, sir. But this motion picture has been rated ‘R” - no one under 17 is permitted,” she said without hesitation.
“What? They’ve never I.D.’ed me before,” I said aghast. “I’ve seen Rocky Horror a hundred times!”
“Sorry again, sir, but our bosses have specifically informed us that anyone selling tickets to an R-rated feature must check I.D.’s or else we would lose our jobs,” she politely informed me.

(Now, before I continue and all of you readers get the wrong impression of me, I have to fill you in on one thing. The ticket counter lady was hot. No, no, that’s not what I wanted to say…what I wanted to say was….She was extremely hot. No, now dammit, man, I can’t get over her, can I? Alright, let’s clear the air once and for all… the ticket counter lady was so hot that she was so out of my league it was embarrassing for me to even go up and ask for a ticket… happy? Ok, good. Now as I was trying to say before, please, please, do NOT get the wrong impression of me as you read the next paragraph - if it will help, please envision the next paragraph of a very immature 16-year-old boy acting like just that - a 16-year-old immature boy.)

“R-rated?” I questioned. “R-rated, really?”
“Yes, sir, all persons going into R-rated pictures must present picture I.D. displaying their age,” she so elegantly put it.
“And what makes this picture R-rated?” I asked matter-of-factly.
“Well, let’s see,” she stated referring to the chart given to her by the all-powerful MPAA. “Language…”
“Language?” I repeated. “Language? I’ll show you guys some fucking language, I mean, shit, lady!!”
She tried her best to continue and ignore my little outburst.
“Um….er nudity…,” she continued.
“Nudity? Did you say fucking nudity?” I raged on. “I’ll show you some fucking nudity, how about this?”
It was then that I pulled down my pants and “mooned” the ticket counter lady.
“How’s that nudity for ya, huh?”

(Once again, please accept the author’s most humbled apologies for his actions of a VERY immature 16-year-old boy.) It was about that time that the very hot ticket counter lady left to go get her manager. Needless to say, I picked up my drawers and got the hell out of there. Viva La Moon-A-Palooza! That degrading behavior behind me (hee hee, behind me….oh, I’m sorry, where was I?), I ran to my vehicle where I met up with my friends. Somehow, all of my friends had decided to pile into the “Rusty-Mobile” except for one, my good friend, Chris. So, Chris and I hopped into my convertible and before we knew it, the “Rusty-Mobile” was pulling up next to us at the stop light revving her engine. I swear I heard my car whimper.

I glanced over at Rusty with that devious twinkle in his eye and that mischievous grin on his face and knew exactly what he was thinking: “Terry was about to get his cute little butt kicked”. And believe you me, dear readers, I do have a cute butt. Just ask that hot ticket counter lady. No, that’s not what I meant to say, I meant to say - believe you me, dear readers, my cute little butt WAS about to be annihilated. So, I did what any other immature 16-year-old boy did best and that was show-off. I revved my engine so hard that the RPM needle went into the red. Now, I am not a big car buff person and I am very inexperienced when it comes to knowing exactly what cars do and how they operate. I mean, I know what cars do, they move us from place “A” to place “B” - sometimes even place “C” (you know who you are, all you bad drivers out there). But, as far as HOW they do what they do, I am about as clueless as Paris Hilton in the workplace. I have never seen the needle go all the way into the red and it was quite enjoyable. Enjoyable to the extent that my car sounded really cool. Rusty’s eyes were locked onto mine. My eyes were locked onto his. Chris’ eyes were about as wide as they could possibly get without falling out of his head. Rusty gripped and rubbed his steering wheel. I grasped mine like it was a handle from a Harley Davidson motorcycle. Chris grabbed his “Oh, shit” handle, closed his eyes and began to pray. The light turned green and we were off! Tires screeching, teeth grinding, Chris screaming.

I tried my very best to keep up with Rusty. I kept my poor little car’s needle constantly in the red. Buildings were flying by and I was passing cars left and right. Plus, it didn’t help that I had someone crying in the passenger seat clawing at the dash. Chris was panicking to the extreme and then started to rummage through my glove box.
“Pen, paper, hurry quick!” he yelled.
“What? Why?” I questioned with one eye on the road.
“Because I need to make my will!” he hollered.
If both of my hands weren’t busy at that time, I would have strangled him myself. But I didn’t. I kept calm under the extreme pressure-cooker situation I was in and besides, if I had strangled him - what kind of ending would that be for this story? It would have been a sucky ending. Arrests, trials, depositions, etc. Nah, what happened next was far more exciting than any courtroom hoopla. You see, apparently, I had sped through a red light. And police office-type persons do not like this. When I looked into my rearview mirror, I saw flashing red and blue lights. I pulled over almost immediately.
“Great, Chris, now look what you made me do!” I whined. “Follow my lead!”
“Lead?” Chris questioned. “What are you gonna-?”
“Shut up!” I interrupted. “Just let me do the talking, follow my lead, ok?”
“Oh man, we are so going to jail, aren’t we?” Chris said while scribbling on a notepad that he had found.
The State Trooper exited his vehicle and reluctantly approached mine. I quickly put on my “game face”.
“License and registration, please,” the officer began.
“Oh, Officer, thank God you’re here!” I lied.
“Oh?” he asked while looking at me strangely. If his head cocked anymore to the right, I swear it would have fallen off. “And why is that, sir?”
What I did next was a stroke of pure genius. Or maybe it was pure stupidity. Ever notice that there is a very thin line between genius and stupidity? I took a deep breath before I spoke and I didn’t let up:
“Those people - they were chasing us - they threw stuff at my car!” I rambled. “I thought they were going to kill us!”
Chris looked at me, stunned.
“Woah, woah, now just hold on, slow down,” the cop stammered. “What people? Are you guys ok?”
Then, I turned on the waterworks. Before I knew it, I was sobbing between sentences.
“I mean, why are they trying to hurt us? I just got so scared.” I continued. “They came out of nowhere - I’m so sorry, Officer.”
By this time the Officer didn’t know what to think or do. He then looked at Chris, who was still in shock at my actions.
“Are you alright, Sir?” the Officer asked Chris. “Did you guys get a good look at the car? What have you got there?” The Officer pointed to Chris’ notepad. “Did you write down their plate number?”
“Um, ah, no Sir,” Chris said sheepishly. “I was ah…making out my will.”
“I see,” the Officer said. “Well, um, are you gentlemen okay to drive?”
“I think I might need a minute or so,” I said between a couple of short, shallow breaths and sniffles.
“I understand, Sir. Take your time. I will be right back there. When you are ready to leave, I’ll follow you for a little bit to make sure that they don’t come back, okay?” he stated very politely.
“Thank you so much, Officer,” I choked.
I turned to Chris, smiled and pulled out, with our very own police escort in tow. Yep, pure genius.

I pulled up to the next stoplight, Rusty was already there, waiting for me. He glanced over at Chris and I and then turned his gaze to the cop car directly behind me. His smile quickly vanished. Even the people in his tailgate sat up and paid more attention. Chris was too nervous to even look over at Rusty. My police escort lasted all the way back to the highway. The cop honked his horn and waved at Chris and I as we turned onto I-275. By that time, Chris had slunk himself down in the seat and did not want to see the cop again.
“Is he gone?” Chris asked as he sat up.
“Yes, Mr. Wussy,” I teased. “You can come out now.”
“Well, excuse me,” Chris said. “But, lying to an Officer of the law doesn’t exactly constitute into a fun evening for me.”
“Oh, really?” I questioned him. “And mooning passing cars while farting is?”
“Touché.”
Chris and I were not even on the Highway for five minutes when I saw the familiar headlights blinding me from behind and the roar of an engine so loud it drowned out all of Chris’ obscenities. The “Rusty-Mobile” was back. And she was pissed. Rusty came from behind and pulled up to drive side-by-side with me. That evil grin returned as did that little twinkle in his eye. I couldn’t help myself. I punched the accelerator almost all the way down to the floor. I shot ahead of him but that didn’t last long because he just came back stronger and faster. I pushed the pedal down even further. You would think that my little car would have shot forward and pulled ahead. That’s what I thought it would do. So, why didn’t it? Instead, my car lost all drawing power and backfired.
“Someone’s shooting at us!” Chris yelled as he dived back under the dashboard.
“That was the car, you idiot!” I hollered back.
I tried to get Rusty’s attention to let him know that something was wrong with my car and we were going to pull over. But, alas, I could not get Mr. Andretti to even notice me and my dilemma. So, Chris and I started at the back of Rusty’s truck with about 5 of our friends waving and mouthing the words, “Eat our dust”. Not only did we eat that dust, but we also smelt it, licked it, tasted it, and felt that dust. It was the dust of defeat.

As I was trying to pull over, I heard my car making awful clicking/ticking noises.
“Oh my God, Terry…” Chris started.
“What? What is it now?” I asked.
“We’re gonna blow up!” he half-joked.
I ignored the sit-down comedian in my front seat and pulled over on the Highway. The next exit was 10 miles. However, there was a rest area about 5 miles up. But, I had to see what was wrong with my “baby”. Once I was all the way pulled over and stopped, I looked over to Chris. He looked over to me. So, there we were, stranded on the Highway at 1am, with no cell phones (weren’t that popular 15 years ago, believe it or not).
“What are we gonna do?” asked Chris.
I looked up, we had “parked” directly in front of an I-275 road sign.
“Be tomorrow’s headline - Two Young Men Die on 1-275.” I said non-jokingly.
We both let out a sigh and I decided that then was a good time to check under my hood. I opened my door, put one foot outside, turned to look over my left shoulder and let out a horrifying scream. There was a huge semi coming straight for me. Not wanting to become road kill, I quickly dived back into my car and slammed the door. So, I decided to get out on Chris’ side. Yeah, that was smart. There I was, crawling across my friend in my very small front seat. One car slowed down enough so that I could hear them shout:
“Hey, there’s a rest area 5 miles up….FAGS!”
Ah, we have come so far as a civilized nation, haven’t we? I picked myself up off of Chris’ crotch, opened his door and stumbled out onto the shoulder of the Highway. I stood up, dusted the gravel off as Chris watched.
“Was it as good for you as it was for me?” he totally joked.
“Just shut up and help me look under the hood, please,” I said.
So, Chris and I walked to the front of the car, which was still smoking, coincidentally, and lifted the hood….slowly. We looked like two airport security agents opening a lost suitcase. Upon opening the hood, I gazed upon the engine. It was glowing red! No lies, no exaggerations…..glowing….. red. I have seen fireworks with less color.
“Chris?” I asked.
“Yes, Terry?”
“Do you have any extra paper?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I think I need to make my will, too, because we ARE gonna blow up!”
We both screamed, slammed the hood shut and run back INSIDE the vehicle. See, it was either wander the streets of Tampa at 1am with the homeless with the fear of being mugged and gutted or blown up inside my car. We elected charred, burning flesh - we didn’t like knives. After several hours of debating whether or not to start my car back up or not, we decided to start it up and drive to the rest area to see if we could get a hold of somebody - ANYbody.

We arrived at the rest area somewhere around 2:30am. Neither one of us had change to use the phone and there was no one around to get change from. I tried contacting my Mom by calling collect, but Mom is a firm believer in any call after Midnight can’t be good, so she didn’t answer. So, after several more hours of debating, I pulled a couple of pillows out of my trunk, (I was moving at the time, convenient, huh?) handed one to Chris and lied my head down to figure out our next step.
“What are you doing?” Chris asked.
“I am going to rest my eyes because I am tired,” I responded.
“But, what about getting home?” he asked.
“Right now, I don’t care, Chris. Let me get a little bit of sleep and maybe I’ll come up with something, okay?”
“Okay. Well, wake me up when you get up, let me know what you thought of.”
“I will.”

We woke up 6 hours later. It was 8:30 in the morning. I looked over to Chris who was drooling all over my pillow. I gave that same pillow to him the next year for his birthday. I woke Chris up tenderly by smacking him upside the head. We argued a little bit before we realized something.
“Oh my God, Rusty….he was supposed to spend the night last night!” I exclaimed.
After we both had finished giggling a little bit, I tried to contact my Mother again by calling collect. Once again, to no avail. So, we had no choice but to chance driving my broken car all the way back to my house. My average speed was 30 miles per hour because the incessant ticking of my automobile kept me on the edge of my seat the entire trip. Cars were constantly passing me, flipping me off, telling me things like: “GET OFF THE ROAD, JACKASS!”
When I finally arrived home, my parents were still sleeping (they worked late the night before). So, Chris and I snuck in and made it back to my room. We were about to go back to bed ourselves, when, suddenly, we heard a loud rapping on my window. I tore open the shade and there was Rusty, eyes bloodshot, with a snarl on his face. Once I calmed him down and wiped the foam from his mouth, he proceeded to tell me about the awful night he had had about sleeping in his car, freezing his ass off, etc. After he was finished, I proceeded to tell him about me and Chris’ war story. Chris and I won.
“At least you had pillows, I had to rest my head on my book bag with fireworks poking me all night!” Rusty whined.

So, we made it home alive (barely) and I’m happy to share this tale of woe. Oh? My car? I put a rod through the engine - whatever that means. I don’t know much about cars, but I do know that it was expensive - so I got a new car after that - a 1992 Pontiac Trans Am (T-Tops, no convertible, dammit). And if I had learned anything from this story it would have to be to grow up and not be so immature because I sure as hell didn’t learn anything about cars because 4 years later I blew the heads on that Trans Am.