THE VERY FIRST TIME
(1956–60)
I had it made in high school. Memphis, Tennessee in the late 1950s was a teenager’s paradise. We were Lords of East Memphis. Emerging youth culture was all around us, creating the perfect environment for young rebels. In the immortal words of Brando in The Wild One, when asked, “What are you rebelling against?” Marlon mumbles, “What have you got?”
If the world wasn’t ours, it would be soon. In front of us: college, draft, marriage, jobs, kids, debt, and maturity, but all of that was over the mountain. Not yet. Tomorrow night we’d buy booze and cruise territory we owned, controlled, and shared dominion over. From haircut to horseshoe-heel taps, we walked the halls of White Station High School with the confidence that comes from being The Man. “Bull of the woods. He’s the boss.”
Parties at girls’ houses. Turn out the lights!
Room full of cigarette smoke and empty coke bottles
Yearning boys and eager girls. Hungry. Wondering.
From far away came late at night over the radio—
“Tell all the sand, and every blade of grass.
Please tell the wind to let my love pass.
Over the mountains a girl waits for me.”
Prophecy. A song to time. We flew through the streets of East Memphis, crept downtown with a tan goddess with dark deep Sunday eyes as the night turned pink around the edges. The road became a jet-propelled elevator with old black cars and white Ivy League shirts. Drinking coffee late at night with a girl with lavender eyes and “cherry blossom lips.”
Whatever secret nighttime held, you could escape to your home and retreat into the family order. Sleep in your bed and wake to the familiar where you were known and loved, a structure in which you were safe. There was freedom in the mandatory structure and comfort, the flow of predictable school days and events that defined existence. When you were where you were supposed to be, you were safe. You knew where to go and what you were expected to do; you could excel if you slipped by unobserved.
College would be different.