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Join Date: Dec 2007
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A Sigh of Joy; A Sigh of Relief
A Sigh of Joy; A Sigh of Relief
I sighed a deep sigh. A sigh of joy. A sigh of happiness. Something I had never expected had just happened. I had just gotten a phone-call. That call went something like this: “Walt,” the voice at the other end said. “Hi, it’s “Bobbi” Richardson.” I replied, “How are you?” “Bobbi” continued. “Walt, I’m baby-sitting in West Roxbury (a section of Boston) this evening. Would you like to keep me company?” she continued. “Yes,” I said (if I were less gentile, I might have blurted out: “You bet your ass!” I then asked, “When do you want me to swing by?” She answered, “Oh, about 8 o’clock.” I then asked for the address where she was baby-sitting and concluded by saying, “See you around eight.”
This whole thing came as a complete surprise. A wonderful surprise. I hadn’t seen Roberta “Bobbi” Richardson in about three or four weeks. “Buxom Bobbi,” or sometimes “Big-Boobs Bobbi,” as she was often called, was a piece of work. If you’re into hyperextensions of a women’s mammary glands, “Bobbi” Richardson would have filled your bill. 42 D-cup. Who knows, maybe larger! I freely admit I’m “a legs man”. But, I’ll settle.
My first problem was: “How do I get to the place where “Bobbi’s” baby-sitting? I have no “wheels”. “Bobbi’s” baby-sitting address was about 5 or 6 miles from my apartment building? Taking a bus or busses on the “T” (public transportation) would have taken well over an hour, possibly even longer. At the time, it was about 6:30 p.m. I’d be hard-pressed to get over to where “Bobbi” was “sitting” by eight using public transportation.
Just then it dawned on me. My buddy Len. We had done each other favors several times. I called, “Hi Len, It’s Walt. I wonder if you could do me a big favor,” I then told Len how “Bobbi” had called and I needed a ride. I told him it was about 15 minutes to where she was baby-sitting. Len said, “No problem. When do you want me?” he continued. I said, “Oh, about 7:30, quarter-of-eight.
About 7:45 Len arrived in front of my apartment with his father’s Dodge. I gave him directions. About 15 minutes later we arrived about one street from where “Bobbi” was baby-sitting. I then said, “Len, why don’t you leave me off here. I can walk the rest of the way.” As I was leaving, I said, “Thanks very much. I owe you one.” Len replied, “Have a good time, but don’t expect me to pick you, I’m not running a taxi service, besides my father needs the car.”
I walked to the address where “Bobbi” was baby-sitting. I wasn’t 100% sure that the couple she was babysitting for had left yet. But I figured I’ll take a shot. It was early May and it was starting to get dark. I walked up the steps to the house and softly knocked on the door (there was a doorbell but I didn’t want to use it because if there were children sleeping upstairs I’d likely wake them up).
Seconds later, “Bobbi” came to the door. She exuded feminine pulchritude. If you were on a blind date and you had been looking for a big-busomed woman, your prayers were just answered. She can inspire. I recall that evening (what you remember over 50 years ago) “Bobbi” was wearing a white blouse with a black skirt. When I arrived she had been talking on the phone with a friend.
As she was talking on the phone I thought about how we had met. A bunch of my friends and I had been playing hockey at one of Boston’s rinks. We decided to stop by, unannounced, to visit “Bobbi” (my buddy had dated “Bobbi” periodically over the last three or four months). “Bobbi” would come out of her house and sit in the car with the three of us. I remember she scratched my knee with her fingers (I didn’t feel it; I was wearing hockey shin pads). Yet, I was intrigued by “Bobbi’s” outgoing, friendly nature.
A couple weeks later, I asked my friend if he would mind if I called her. He said, “No problem”. So “Bobbi” and I subsequently went out on a handful of dates. I remember on one occasion I wrote a term paper for her for her history class. It was called: “Francisco Franco: Spanish Suzerain”. That earned me some “brownie points” and praise from her father.
Well, that early-May evening (I was only weeks away from graduating from college; “Bobbi” was graduating from high school), after “Bobbi” got off the phone, we engaged in our love-making session. When you made out with “Bobbi,” it was “an experience”. It sure beat trying to neck and pet in the front seat of my father’s Toyota Corolla.
This making-out went on, off-and-on (no pun intended), for about the next two hours. One thing that was in the back of my mind was: What if one of the kids sleeping upstairs wakes up and comes down, only to find us in each-other’s clutches, or beyond. Another thought was: What if, by some chance, the parents come home early. Tres embarrassing!
About 10:15, maybe 10:30, I said to “Bobbi,” “I think I should be going.” I gave her a “Good-night kiss” and headed out the door.
As I think back, I remember walking a ¼ of mile to Boston’s VFW Parkway and then another three-quarters of a mile to Boston’s Centre St. near what is called The Arnold Arboretum. It was there I started thumbing. It was close to 11 p.m.
About five minutes later, this car stops and picks me up. Right off the bat I know I’m in trouble. No sooner does he ask me where I’m going (“I’m going in that direction,” he says), then he starts talking graphically about his sexual exploits. I can feel my heart pounding. I’m sweating profusely. I think to myself, “I’m in trouble.”
My mind is working overtime as this stranger continues to regale me with his sexual exploits (I’ve tuned him out). "What’s all this leading up to?" As if I didn’t know. I’m thinking, “At least we’re heading in the right direction. We’re heading south on what is called 'The Arborway'. We’re proceeding in the direction of a section of Boston called Dorchester-Mattapan. At this time, my mouth is so dry, you’d think I was in the Sahara Desert.
We’re now approaching a busy north-south thoroughfare called Blue Hill Ave; it extends all the way from the Boston suburb of Milton to the Roxbury section of Boston near a “T” stop called Dudley Station.
I’m beginning to feel like a pilot who’s coming in for a landing (only I don’t want it to be a crash-landing). “Only one mile from touch-down.” I can hear the tower. We’re heading south on Morton St. where my apartment is located. We’re no more than half-mile away. My mind is working overtime. “Is he packing a gun, a knife?” What is he going to do to me? Am I going to end up in a landfill?
We’re only a matter of yards away, now. We’re crossing over a railroad bridge, nearby is a Boston police precinct headquarters. This pervert is not slowing down. Frantically, I tell him my father’s a cop. That I’ve got the make and model of his car. I’m pulling out all the stops.
As he passes my apartment building, he’s slowing down, maybe to 10 to 15 miles an hour. I say: “It’s now or never.” I unlatch the button to the passenger-side door (thankfully, he didn’t have electric windows or doors.) I then, almost like someone jumping from a train, open the passenger door and leap toward the curb. I remember scraping my knee; yet, I quickly got to my feet and then did a headlong 100-yard dash that would have made Olympic hopefuls proud. I then proceed to run up the stairs to my apartment building. I open the door and scamper up three flights of stairs. I quickly open the door to my apartment and just as quickly, slam it shut (I don’t know if he’s coming). All I knew is that I had dodged a bullet. I sit down. I take a take a deep breath and then, a sigh of relief.
__________________
Walt (Teach)
"Walt, make a 'mental bet' and lose your mind." R.N.S.
"The important thing is what I think of myself."
"David and Lisa" (1962)
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