"This Is a Fine Mess I've Got Myself Into." Mother Was Right Again
Posted: Friday, July 22, 2011
by Ella Camp
“An idle mind is trouble’s workshop,” a truism you may say that I learned the hard way at the tender and blissfully ignorant age of twelve years.
The instrument of my hard-learned lesson came in the form of one Becca Kindred (that’s what we’ll call her.) The neighborhood pariah, whom I knew only in passing and that by bandied reputation, Although the same in age as that of the other pre-adolescent girls on our block; her knowledge and experience in the realm of sensuality had far outreached that of our own.
Shunned by most; she was yet open and friendly to all and sundry who happened to cross her path; as was my unfortunate fate one limpid summer day. Trudging along counting the cracks in the sidewalk; my mind deep in the doldrums of boredom- my ears perked at the chipper friendly voice. “Hi Ella, what cha doin?”
“Nothing Becca,” “Just walking back from Tina’s house, it’s a boring day.” “ Wanna go with me?” she offered, in a challenging tone. “I’m headed to the Farmer’s Market, ever been there?” “It’s real fun and there’s lots of cute guys hanging around.” Come on, we’ll stop at Skillern’s Drug store and get a cherry coke, I’ll buy.” Becca, whose mom worked as a waitress at the corner café, seemed always to have a pocket full of change. I, in my usual penurious state, and stricken with bored ennui, jumped at the chance of a free icy coke and an exciting place to go.
By the time we reached the open-air fruit and vegetable market, my sandal-clad feet were on fire, and I realized, with some dismay, that we had traveled quite a distance from our home street.
We strolled down the bustling noisy isles between the stalls munching on the juicy ripe peaches Becca had purchased from a vendor who, although she spoke no English, had motioned us over in friendly encouraging gestures.
At last, we sat down to rest on a bench under a Chinaberry tree at the other end of the market. After a short time, Becca’s ever-roaming boy radar scoped out a group of teenaged guys lounging around a brightly painted souped-up looking low-rider car. They laughed, joked and horsed around, sprawling in white tee-shirts, low-slung jeans and black loafers; their dark slicked-back duck-tailed hair and gleaming white teeth flashing in the hot evening sun.
Admonitions from my mother flashed into my mind as I realized that they were several years older than us, and seemingly far more experienced. I felt a small trickle of fear.
One of the guys, noticing Becca’s blatant come-hither looks suddenly peeled away from the group and lazily strolled toward us.
Quicker than you can say don’t do it, Becca had bounced over in her usual brazen strut, to meet him. Before any time at all, they seemed to have become engagingly familiar with each other- strolling arm-in-arm back toward the bench.
“Come on Ella, Carlos is gonna walk us home,” she exclaimed excitedly.
In tired, sweltering misery, I trudged along behind them hearing Becca’s trilling giggle as they stopped under the streetlights to kiss and fondle.
Jumping at shadows and reflections from the shuttered and closed storefronts along the dark deserted streets, my feet pounded in rhythm to the repeated refrain in my brain, “My mother is going to kill me.”
As we approached an intersection, the low-rider car containing the rest of Carlos’ pack, pulled slowly to the curb and stopped. Gingerly climbing into the flung open backseat door, Becca called over her shoulder. “Come on Ella, we’ll get a ride the rest of the way home.” “That’s okay, I’ll just go on by myself,” I called back, and quickly turned down the side street that I knew led to our block.
I stared in trepidation at my mother’s face, pale in the feeble back porch light.
Hours of fear, worry and anxiety seemed to drain from her features; her fierce snapping eyes gazed at me in puzzled relief.
I think the only thing that saved me from her scathing admonishing pronouncements was the bedraggled whimper that escaped from my trembling parched lips as I gratefully sank into a kitchen chair- never so glad to be home in my life.
Mother reckoned that I had learned my lesson well enough, and she was right…again. Mia culpa.
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Top-level comments on this article: (3 total)I sound like the back of a matchbook cover, but you've got "real talent", in writing; you wield an eloquent word salad, having found your own voice.
I. too, once knew a precocious girl, a pretty, extremely buxom gal, in my high school science class, who once asked me, in a lab class, why I hadn't ever tried to kiss her?
I replied, that I had never been able to get in that close!
Much affection,
PaulI wonder if she understood what you meant....perhaps she wore a puzzled expression for days.....
Thank you for your comment- much appreciated. But, in my humble opinion- you sound more like the cover and contents of an interesting and compelling book. Always Ella
Wise little girl to not get in the car. I agree with everyone who has previously commented Ella. I enjoy reading whatever you care to write about.How utterly kind of you- your comment makes my heart leap with gladness- a leap a day keeps sadness away- Thanks Bri- Always-Ella
I especially loved this quote: "her voluptuous curves far out distancing her embryonic mind." perfect word picture my friend!
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