Arrow-right Camera
The Spokesman-Review Newspaper
Spokane, Washington  Est. May 19, 1883

The Slice

Blue Car Man

When I was in high school, I had a friend named Tim who was madly in love with this cute girl named Sandra.

He had it bad, as they say.

She was the chief of police's daughter and everyone called her "Sand." Well, except for Tim. Anytime he concocted some reason to speak to her, he wound up uttering a series of nonsense syllables not recognizable to the human ear as English words. It was as if Tim was speaking in tongues.

Nerves, I guess.

Naturally, his friends all found this richly amusing. Oh, we didn't actually revel in his misery. But 16-year-old boys aren't always a reliable source of sensitivity.

How bad was Tim's thing for Sand? Well, I tell you. At night, he would go down in his basement and put the Association's Greatest Hits on the turntable and lie down on a nearby couch. Then he would cover his eyes with one arm. You know, so he could let his feelings simmer. Or something.

And we would all sit around and watch him moon over this girl as he soaked in "Cherish" or "Never My Love" for the zillionth time.

Eventually someone would propose that we do something a bit more entertaining, possibly involving less theoretical girls. But our first destination would usually be Sand's house. Just so Tim could be close to her.

We would encourage him to go knock on her door and speak to her, but he was afraid he would, in the parlance of the time, goat out. (That's not good.)

Anyway, we would take Tim's car but sometimes someone else would drive. Tim would ride shotgun.

So we would go over to Sand's house. And almost invariably, the driver would come to a full stop right in front just as he pressed down on the car horn and opened his door to activate the dome light. The result was that Tim's panicked face would be illuminated as if under a spotlight.

Often another of us would shout something at the house. Something along the lines of "Hey Sand, this is lover boy Tim! I want to have your child!" or "You know you want me, baby!"

Real highbrow stuff.

My friend Jim and I actually wrote a song about Tim. It was called "Blue Car Man." It was not good.

Anyway, I found myself telling a friend the other day about Tim's lovesick ways so long ago. And after that conversation, I got to thinking.

I'll bet Tim remembers. And I'll bet he doesn't regret being hopelessly in love way back then. Sure, he suffered. But man, he knew he was alive.

That has to count for something.



The Slice

The online home for Paul Turner's musings and interactions with disciples of The Slice.