Crossroads

By Mike Vaught

All lives are marked by crossroads, but the first one may just set the tone for the rest of your life. The year 1970 was more than the end of a decade and the beginning of a brave new world. It was life at its very best, filled with angst and pleasure, excitement and pain. A young man at eighteen is faced with many possibilities, decisions, and freedoms. How will Michael Lee ever be able to make a choice when everything is candy? After all is said and done, it really is all about the one: the one choice, the one dance, the one kiss, the one love. Was Marilyn really at the Kerfoot? Who would steal a skull from a German prisoner of war cemetery? Who really had the fastest car? Does anybody really know what time it is?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781646282609

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Beginning

The sixties were over. It is now five months into the seventies. 5:30 p.m. had finally arrived and that time clock had been punched for the last time. May 22, 1970. Michael etched the date in his brain. A new beginning; the start of his new life. Just two weeks earlier, he had been notified by the Rock Island Railroad that his application had been accepted, and a position in the car department would be available next Monday. This was great news! He had graduated from El Reno high school earlier this month, but college seemed like it could wait awhile; after all, he had finally been set free from the day-to-day regimen of public school. He could go ahead and just do as he wished: adult pay and new responsibility. The Rock Island Railroad was willing to pay $4.15 per hour for his labor, almost twice what he currently earned. He could save the extra money and work weekend jobs at the gun club. He could even work at some of the farms during harvest. His plan: put off college at least until he was twenty-one.

It will be good working the Rock. His family has a long history there. Uncle Bill works in the El Reno yard, and uncle Bob works for the Rock in Illinois. His father worked this same yard for years before the second war. Michael needed this change. After working at Spurlin Supply after school, weekends, and summers for more than four years, this was a needed experience.

The sun was very intense. Even at 5:35 p.m., the temperature was hovering at ninety-eight. A haze had appeared in the west casting an eerie orange glow circumscribing that huge ball of gases. The smell of dust and freshly cut wheat filled the air. Michael took a deep breath as he pulled the keys from his right front pocket. Approaching the car was always done like a sleuth on a case: every angle was examined for scrapes and scratches, and tires were looked at for low pressure. Dust had accumulated on the hood, trunk, and roof during the past eight hours.

Guess I’ll have to give her a bath, he murmured as he cranked the engine. The high-pitched wa-wa-wa-wa of a Chrysler starter was soon silenced by the deep-throated roar of the 440 big block power machine. He quickly and lightly pressed his foot on the accelerator and let off, glancing at the Sun tachometer jumping from 800 to 2200 revolutions per minute. Gauges checked; oil pressure idling at 18 psi, increasing to 30 psi. Excellent. The temperature gauge already showed one hundred degrees, so there was no need to let the engine warm. That deep exhaust sound vibrating off the concrete building behind him was music to the ears.

Just as the Hurst competition plus shifter with white T-handle was placed in first gear, Jack drove up in his new 1970 metallic-green Dodge Super Bee. The Dodge was impressive with two working hood scoops that increased the air flow as the car went faster. Jack, the son of Michael’s now former boss, was supposed to help Michael unload a truck that afternoon. Jack slipped away earlier about 3:30 p.m., leaving Michael to cover for him and finish the work.

What’s happenin’ tonight? Jack said with that I-want-to-tag-along voice.

Don’t know, Michael quickly replied. Probably meet Billy at Jobe’s, tip a few, and wait for Whitey to get off at dark.

Doesn’t sound like much; I’ll probably see you later though, Jack assured him.

It wasn’t that Michael didn’t want Jack around, quite the opposite; they had been best friends since grade school. But Jack and Sally had gotten married before Christmas during their senior year. So an outing with the newlyweds ended about 10 p.m. in front of the TV in their apartment. How boring! Michael wanted to chase girls, and Jack was putting a damper on that fun.

Michael’s mind quickly wandered back over the last few years before Jack and Sally were married. A lot of the evenings and weekends were spent the three of them tooling around Yukon. The patterned drive rounding the Arrowhead drive-in restaurant, then east on Highway 66 over the North Canadian river bridge into Bethany, circling McDonald’s and driving back. They spent time eating at Mexican restaurants. They all loved Mexican especially Casa Bonita, home of the all you can eat, just raise the flag. But they were kids then—only sixteen years old.

A specific moment flashed through Michael’s mind, like the splash of light produced when turning on an incandescent bulb that burns out. He could see himself and Sally walking hand and hand, Jack in the lead, hauling them into the new fast-food taco store—Taco Mayo. Recently opened, Jack had to be among the first to try this restaurant. Michael and Sally had an expressionless love, a very deep friendship that went back to the eighth grade. Her mom had died that year, and Michael and Jack had been there to offer friendship. Their paths had been intertwined despite Sally moving to Yukon in the ninth grade. Often Michael would ride with Jack on his little Honda scooter to Yukon for visits. When they turned sixteen, they would drive over in Jack’s or Michael’s car.

Once more, Michael feathered the accelerator pedal on the metallic-blue 1968 Plymouth GTX. As Jack backed out, he also revved his engine. Michael wasn’t about to be intimidated by this. Once again, they were lined up, side by side, on the old two-lane blacktop road that was once the famed Highway 66. Just a half-block north of the crossroads, they looked at each other with that confident stare so often seen on the face of an incumbent politician. As the sounds of those monster Mopars grew louder, Jack gave a nod as he side stepped the clutch and floored the accelerator. Black smoke flew to the rear as Jack’s tires lit up. Michael’s GTX, with its torque 440, charged ahead pulling about half car length through first gear. Michael seldom dropped the clutch because the Goodyear Polyglas tires would not catch enough traction. Instead, he would let out the clutch at about 2200 rpm, allow the tires to catch, then apply pressure to the accelerator. This move almost always allowed Michael to be the first out of the hole and through low with street tires. At 5500 rpm, Michael went for second. During the shift, the Super Bee caught traction and pulled beside Michael with the 383 screaming at over 5800 rpm, but Jack, too, had to shift, allowing Michael to once again gain the half car length. They each jockeyed for the lead through second and into third. With their high-geared Mopars, Jack’s with 3:55 and Michael’s with 3:54 ratios meant for high speed, both were approaching 90 mph as Jack went to fourth. At this point, they had gone only slightly more than three city blocks and were rapidly approaching the cemetery where old Highway 66 made a 125-degree curve circling the grave stones. Jack knew Michael wouldn’t go for fourth until they were both at about 100 mph, and even though he was a half-length behind, he let off. Michael quickly followed suit. This time, Michael had pulled the edge. Last night, it was just the opposite.

These high-speed races had been going on for over a month now, ever since Jack’s dad bought the Super Bee for his graduation present. Before the two had gotten the monster Mopars, the race was between Michael’s 1959 Plymouth Savoy with a 318 V8 automatic two-speed push button and Jack’s 1968 six-cylinder automatic three-speed Ford Mustang. They were evenly matched then as now, only moving half as fast. Michael’s GTX had been his pride for over a year now, and he almost had the bank note paid off. Jack’s dad was dead set against his son having a race car but finally gave in to his pleas. Michael somehow felt that it was done due to him being one up on Jack now that he had a fourteen-second car.

Both cars began decelerating rapidly as they came to dead-man curve. Many people had crashed and rolled at this curve before the new bypass Highway 66 had been built. At this speed, both Michael and Jack had no choice but to press hard on the breaks to control the cars, not making the curve and taking the straight away from the curve meant crossing the one-lane wooden suicide bridge that crossed at the old interurban tracks. The tracks were once the lifeline from El Reno to Oklahoma City and beyond. They carried the female work crew to Tinker Air Force base during the second war, supplying the needed manpower to build the airplanes. The old tracks lay in an unused state, rotten and so was the bridge.

The rapid deceleration caused both cars to rack back with loud report. Michael was now going about fifty into the curve with Jack tightly on his tail. They looked much like the Daytona speedway cars tightly bunched going into curves, tight to cause less air resistance. Michael’s front tires were starting to lose some bite but were not out of control. These cars were not built for high-speed curved roadways. Both were built for acceleration and straight away high speed and that Mopar accomplished. A quick downshift to second brought the metallic-blue streak down to a speed, which enabled Michael to negotiate the remainder of the curve and then quickly accelerated away as the road straightened. Jack had done the same and blinked his headlights to say, Bye. See you later.

Chapter 2

Home

The jet spray of warm water cleanses the combined sweat and dirt of eight hours toil. Michael could hear the television from the living room; the 6 p.m. news was giving the details of today’s action at the front and the usual body count. Vietnam seemed so distant, and in Michael’s eyes, our nation had no business there. Just last December, the government put 365 numbers in a hopper and drew the numbers to give an order to draftees for the police action. Strange. The way the federals have a way of using words like police action instead of war. Three hundred and fifty two was the lottery number he had received. Good news since the quota of draftees was going to be filled long before getting to three hundred. Michael was very glad it had happened that way because he had already made up his mind not to go. Then the weather came on, and the forecast was more of the same—hot with chances of thunderstorms. Michael’s mind quickly came back to the task at hand. Additional scrubbing was required on the left hand. The callouses on the palms and fingers were badly stained from the truck unloaded earlier. The news went off as he stepped from the shower.

Light-blue JCPenney T-shirt with pocket, blue Converse All Stars shoes, white underwear, and cut-off Levi’s jean shorts. All the attire he would need for the evening. Quickly dressing, he shook his head to dry his hair and opened the bathroom door. Michael’s sister was standing there waiting in turn.

’Bout time! She snarled.

Cut me some slack. I was only in there for twenty minutes! Michael growled back.

Twenty minutes too long! She protested.

Michael’s sister was three years his elder and preparing to get married on July 10, just weeks away. She was tall at five foot seven, and it was obvious they were brother and sister. The same color blue-silver eyes and height was the dead giveaway. The only difference was skin color: He would tan like his father, she would burn in the sun like their mother. Michael was an easy six feet tall but only 170 pounds. He was thin, and his muscles were long, sinewy, and strong; part genetics and part hard manual labor.

The smell from the kitchen grabbed Michael’s attention from the confrontation with his sister over bathroom privileges. Passing through the living room to the kitchen, Michael noticed his dad was already asleep in his lounge chair facing the television.

Lee, Michael’s mom screamed from the dining room. Supper is almost ready. Wait for supper! she stated when she saw her son’s hand slipping toward the fried chicken.

How was your day? she questioned.

It was long and tiring. Jack, John, and Jim all ducked out when the truck came in, leaving Pat and I to unload the whole thing. I’m a bit tired, Michael answered.

Good. You can stay home with us tonight, she stated.

And miss all the action? he quizzed.

Action. She grinned. This is El Reno.

They both had a laugh.