In the afternoon, Lefevre and I drove to Wichita Falls for beer. Pioneer Drive-Inn #3 was just inside the city limits, so that’s where we sat until we espied a disreputable-looking fellow who looked like he was over 21.
We struck up a conversation, and offered to buy him some beer. He liked that idea. He was a skinny guy, none too clean, with a Camels pack rolled into the arm of his t-shirt. We produced the money and he got the goods from the liquor store next door, and then for politeness sake we all sat in my car and drank a beer, and while sitting there, the guy did an amazing thing:
With one hand he opened a book of paper matches, pulled one forward and closed the cover behind it, bent it and ignited it, then lit his cigarette and tore the burnt-out match from the book! All with one hand!
I got him to show me slowly, and I practiced this over and over, because I just knew that it would make me very, very cool. I probably could still do it, but frankly I’m just not cool any more, and no longer smoke.
We soon said adios to our new friend, because we now possessed a case of beer and a large house all to ourselves. Naturally, throwing a party seemed like a good idea at the time.
Back in Henrietta, we sat around at the Lo-Boy Drive-Inn and when friends showed up, we invited them to my party. After a while, Lefevre left to fetch his 1967 Impala, him needing to drive back to Wichita Falls to collect a date for the evening.
Lefevre was a famous ladies man.
He was widely considered to be smooth of speech. We all believed that he could walk into any building and come out with a girl on each arm.
Lefevre himself was the first to promulgate this legend. He himself explained to me that he was no longer at the level of trying to get laid; he was at a higher level, where he concentrated on the best way to do it with each particular girl. There was more to this speech, but perhaps that’s enough for now.
That evening, when it got dark, people began showing up. More and more of them. Cars were parked on the street, then on the lawn. Upstairs was lottso beer. Downstairs in my beatnik’s lair, the basement, was cool jazz music, and a quiet spot.
Somehow, during the evening, Lefevre and his date became ensconced in that basement, and everybody else was locked out. Well, how typical, we thought.
We drank beer and told lies, and mostly it was just a bunch of guys sitting around, because all the girls but one had gone home. Paul H. I think it was also had a date, who was now complaining that she needed to go home.
The problem was that she was supposed to ride back to her home in Wichita Falls with Lefevre and his date, and they were inaccessible. Finally Paul H. gave up, and drove her home. The party was definitely thinning out.
Then somebody noticed the intercom system. My parents had installed this fancy intercom with a station in their bedroom, and one in the children’s room, and one in the basement. That was the same basement in which Lefevre and date were barricaded.
Naturally, wanting to give them every consideration, we refused to listen in for at least a minute or two. When we turned it on, we could hear them, but they couldn’t hear us. The girl was complaining.
“Take me home,” she said. “I’ll get in trouble.” Then we heard Lefevre.
“Come here,” he said.
There were some moments of silence and rustling, and then she began again that she had to go home, that he must take her home right now.
“Come here,” he said.
She objected, became angry, remonstrated with him.
“Come here,” he said.
She became tearful, pleading that she’d be in trouble.
“Come here,” he said.
This went on for a long time. Then there was a long silence and more rustling, for a long time.
After a while, Lefevre and the girl appeared in the living room. He said he’d be taking her home now. They left.
What a smooth-talking guy! No wonder he did so well with the ladies!
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