Adolescence is a troubling time; if one falls in love during that turbulent transition from pubescence to maturation, it can be terrifying. Such was the case when I had eyes only for Carol Rose.
She was an exotic beauty with raven black hair, a coquettish, Mona Lisa smile, and deep-set, electric blue eyes, set in a perfect, un-pimpled teenage face, glowing with creamy mother-of-pearl smoothness. She had no bad angle: from the front, side, or behind, she was pure pulchritude — the kind of female who causes boys to sit up all night and stare at the moon, like lonely, howling coyotes.
Knowing how hopelessly in love I was, her cousin Andy came up with an idea: “Saturday night is Halloween, and we’re going to see ‘Mystery Of The Wax Museum’ at the Temple Theatre. I’ll talk her into saving a seat for you.”
Pleased that her son was exhibiting the characteristics of a healthy, heterosexual male, Mama was almost excited as I was.
“Wear a white shirt and your new pair of corduroy pants,” she said. “I’ll take you to the movie, and you can ride home with Mrs. Polasini.” The Polasinis lived even farther out in the country than we did.
As soon as my eyes adapted to the darkened theater, I saw Carol Rose’s glossy black hair crossing a graceful neck and falling on a pale white shoulder.
“Hi,” I said. “Are you saving this seat for someone?”
“Yes,” she answered, and after what seemed an eternity, whispered, “for you.”
The movie was the ultimate horror experience of our young lives, so much so that Carol Rose reached over and took my hand.
Terrified, we watched Igor dip his victims into wax and create lifelike statues. Fay Wray was saved from the vat of hot wax at the last minute, and we breathed a huge sigh of relief.
When Mrs. Polasini let me out at our house’s long, winding driveway, I felt uneasy. The path was pitch black, beneath gloomy overhanging trees. No doubt Igor was hiding behind one of them.
Then I heard him — a swishing sound that slowed down when I slowed down and quickened when I sped up. My chest froze, I couldn’t breathe … I would soon be dipped in hot wax!
Swish, swish, swish — Igor took the exact number of steps I took. I raced with all my might for the front door, with Igor swish, swish, swishing at the same pace.
Clinging un-manfully to Mama’s nightgown, I told her Igor had almost captured me.
When she asked how I knew, I explained the monster’s swish, swish, swish. She chuckled, giggled, and then guffawed.
“Walk across the room, son.” I did, and the corduroy fabric between my thighs swished, swished, swished.
Tactfully, she changed the subject. “How did things go with Carol Rose?”
“That gorgeous babe held my hand, Mama. I’ll always remember this Halloween as the most wonderful night of my life.”
I really remember it as the night of corduroy horror.
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
