Making Out: A Novel of the Fabulous Fifties and Beyond

MAKING OUT

A NOVEL OF THE FABULOUS FIFTIES AND BEYOND

DAVID LAURENCE

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© 2011David Laurence. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 2/18/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4520-9044-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-9045-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-9046-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010915729

Printed in the United States of America

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Forward

Chapter One

Come Go With Me

Chapter Two

Sh-Boom

Chapter Three

Duke Of Earl

Chapter Four

Love Is Strange

Chapter Five

At The Hop

Chapter Six

Big Man

Chapter Seven

It’s Just A Matter Of Time

Chapter Eight

School Day

Chapter Nine

Get A Job

Chapter Ten

Do You Want To Dance

Chapter Eleven

Rain Drops

Chapter Twelve

You’ll Never Walk Alone

Chapter Thirteen

All In The Game

Chapter Fourteen

Endless Sleep

Chapter Fifteen

My Prayer

Chapter Sixteen

Graduation Day

Chapter Seventeen

Over The Mountain

Chapter Eighteen

I Want To Hold Your Hand

Chapter Nineteen

Abraham, Martin, And John

Chapter Twenty

Soldier Boy

Chapter Twenty-One

Red Sails In The Sunset

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapel Of Love

Chapter Twenty-Three

My Prayer

Chapter Twenty-Four

The Sound Of Silence

Chapter Twenty-Five

The End

Chapter Twenty-Six

Please Love Me Forever

Acknowledgements

FORWARD

THIS NOVEL IS JUST THAT—A novel. Many city names and places are real, at least they existed during the time the events described in the novel took place. Many of the events described took place exactly as written; other events were totally manufactured, and some actual event dates were changed. However, the overall story happened much the way it was described.

All of the names of the characters in the book are fictitious (except for the names of famous people). Any similarities to authentic names of people (other than famous people) living or dead are purely coincidental. Also, if harsh or explicit language offends you, you might consider reading some other novel. Though not overly used, know that such language is the way young people talked in the 1950’s onward.

Making Out is a novel about a man (David Carter) who writes a novel about his life as seen through the eyes of his (Carter’s) protagonist, David Nickelson. During his journey (from seventh grade through his forty-year reunion) Carter’s main character, along with many of the other Carter characters, will not only win your heart, but he, and they, will make you wish that, with them, you had lived those years accurately described as the Fabulous Fifties. (The 1960’s onward is another story.)

To those related to certain people who might think they recognize those people in this novel, I can only say this: Odds are, it most likely isn’t, or wasn’t, them. Last, I wrote this book for the following reasons: 1) to bring back fond memories to those who lived during the 1950’s, forward. 2) to allow younger generations to see, feel, and experience what the world of their grandparents was really like (and why they might not be as weird as those generations may think). And 3) to remind today’s world that America can still return to its roots, its core values, and by so doing be the wondrous country it once was.

Making Out is a book of many pages; I found it necessary to make it so. After all, can a novel spanning nearly 70 years (the 1940’s to 1999) be historically thorough if it’s completed in a mere few hundred pages? I could have shortened it, opting for the sure money it would bring if I had made it short and sweet. But editors and critique mongers be damned. Stick with me then as I take you on a journey into the past, and you will read the last page, glad that you took the time to relive what many people have rightly termed, the Fabulous Fifties. What came later is simply history. Put the two together and you will begin to understand much of the darkness that exists today. Fortunately, if you can get a handle on history you will always be able to correct the present. And by so doing, you will be much more able to deal with the future.

Reader, I invite you now to MAKE OUT.

DL

MAKING OUT

(A Novel of the Fabulous Fifties and Beyond)

By

David Laurence

CHAPTER ONE

COME GO WITH ME

DAVID CARTER PEERED OVER HIS half-glasses.

Son-of-a—! Can it be—?

Hi, Dave, smiled the tall, post middle-aged man now extending his hand toward Carter.

Tommy Halvert, you handsome devil. Damn! How long has it been? And how are your knees?

It’s got to be, what, thirty years, Dave, Halvert said. I didn’t make it to either of the last two, you know? Halvert was referring to both their twenty and thirty year high school reunions, 1979 and 1989.

Guess who I saw in the parking lot on my way in? Halvert continued, jerking up a slightly crooked smile.

Who?

Mary O’Connor.

No kidding? Carter said, trying to look nonchalant.

That’s right, Mary O. Haven’t seen her in a coon’s age, either.

So, how does she look? Carter said with a slightly crooked smile of his own.

Looks like she’s about thirty-five, if that, Halvert replied. Then he laughed.

Carter nodded his head as though he had expected to hear that.

Well, go on in, Tom, and make the rounds. I’ll see you in a few minutes; I’ve got to take care of some business. They’ve got me on the committee for this thing.

Okay, Dave. Oh, by the way, my knees are fine, Halvert said with a wink. Then he turned and disappeared into the dimly lit banquet room of the Embassy Suites, in Arcadia, California.

Carter watched his former classmate pass through the doorway, all the while marveling at what the years had not done to him.

Probably a health nut or something, he mumbled aloud. Probably live forever. His face suddenly soured. Hell, nothing’s forever, he said, allowing the cynical streak now ingrained in him to rear its head. Then he turned to resume the committee’s business.

The banner behind the podium read: Welcome Class Of 1959 To Your 40-Year Class Reunion. It served as a reminder to those present that, like it or not, they were getting up there in years. But the aging process was not the theme for this night. The green and gold streamers, the menagerie of glossy forty-fives hanging from the ceiling by brightly colored ribbons, and the gaily decorated centerpieces, were there to remind the ‘59ers that they were once very young, and that for the duration of this night they would be young again.

The room filled, dinner was served, and the entertainment began. The entertainment consisted of a DJ hired to play music from the 1950’s. His instructions: Keep the songs coming, and don’t play them too damn loud! It was a marked change from the first few reunions where the music was so loud you couldn’t hear the person next to you screaming in your ear at a distance of two inches. And the lyrics during those years were, more often than not, completely unrecognizable, except when they played the oldies.

At 8:30 P.M. the one hundred fifty guests were treated to a slide show of old school pictures dating from as early as 1954, seventh grade.

There were cat calls and howls, much laughter and even a few tears, then it ended. Soon the small groups, which inevitably form at such affairs, closed ranks. The time had come for renewing old friendships.

David Carter’s table consisted of six couples and one single—Carter, having lost his wife nearly seventeen years before. There was Jim and Terry Mangio, Rich Coselli and his new forty-three year old girl friend, Andrea; John Riley and his second wife, Pam; John and Jean Forset; Bob Hickman and his second wife, Carla, and Mike and Kathleen Torro.

It was during the third round of drinks that someone made a remark that caught the attention of the entire group: Kids these days are no different than they were forty years ago. It was a topic that had been raised during past reunions.

Silence followed the remark. Everyone’s mind began to whirl. Are kids really the same now as they were then?

Yeah, times haven’t changed all that much, Mike Torro said, breaking the silence. I mean, sex, booze—same now as then, only now they’re more open about it.

What about drugs? No one used drugs back then. All eyes shifted to David Carter.

What about our joint smoking pals, Jack Hassy and Ronnie Derrone? Torro argued.

Hell, two guys in the entire school, and they were ostracized for it; no one would even talk to them, remember?

Right, they smoked a little grass and I mean no one liked them, John Riley added. We called them, what was it, ah, dope fiends?

Exactly, Carter nodded. And there were other differences as well. Carter was about to continue, but Rich Coselli jumped in.

Yeah, my kids—I’ve got a twenty-eight and a thirty-eight year old—I mean, hell, they’re so sophisticated compared to us. I mean they’d have booted us out of school back then had we spouted off even half the views they did in their schools—especially my twenty-eight year old!

Carter looked at his friend of over forty-five years. Instead of seeing an overweight Dego with a receding hairline, he saw a lean, muscular stud, with dark-brown curly hair and rust-brown eyes. Usually wearing black peggers (tight pants, tight cuffs), and a black leather multi-zippered jacket with the collar turned up, Rich Coselli was the epitome of the ‘Fifties, and the heartthrob of many a poodle-skirted young sweet thing.

Bob Hickman was quick to disagree with his friend. Nah, hell, Rich, nothing’s really changed, except for the players, he said with an authoritative wave of his leathery hand. Kids today are just more honest. They’re not afraid to let it all hang out—as they say. That’s the only real difference.

Kathleen Torro had been watching David Carter as the conversation progressed. Okay, Carter, you look like you’re just bustin’ to say something, she said.

Carter smiled, but said nothing.

Come on, Kathleen insisted. You taught school for a time. I’ll bet you know a lot about this subject.

David gazed at his untouched chocolate mousse.

Let’s hear it, Torro persisted.

David picked up his spoon and tapped it ever so lightly on the white linen tablecloth. Well, he began, I think 1959 marked the beginning of the end of an era, and what finally took its place in the 60’s was so drastically different that it leaves the description ‘as different as day and night’ wholly inadequate.

What does he mean? whispered young Andrea, although everyone heard her.

Shut up, sweet-thing; you just sit there and look beautiful, Rich Coselli, fifteen years her senior, said. She’s still having a hard time getting all the Johns straight in our class, he added, stroking her hair.

Andrea feigned a dumb blonde look, and then joined in the laughter.

The subject of change could have passed, but Kathleen Torro was persistent. Granted, the death of John Kennedy caused a change in us, she continued, but that was in 1963, if I’m not mistaken.

John Kennedy’s face flashed into David’s mind. He could still see the President’s hand extending toward him—just as it did that summer in Yosemite thirty-six years ago—almost to the day.

Ah, right, 1963, David mused. Nineteen Sixty-Three was definitely a landmark year. And when did Viet Nam start?

We began sending ‘advisors’ over there around 1960 or so, Kathleen said.

Okay, Kat, and when did the Beetles first come on the scene?

Oh, about that time, Kathleen answered, patting the back of her blonde, curly hair, proud that she knew the answers.

Three major factors right there, Carter said. And by the way, I’m not saying that things changed overnight, but think about it. In 1959 what were the most important things in our lives?

John Riley didn’t hesitate. That’s easy, hosing! he said, raising his hand slightly.

John! squirmed his wife, Pam. Then she playfully slapped her husband’s arm.

Everyone laughed. After all, who could deny it?

Ah, right. And what else? Carter pressed.

Hell, ah, cars, Coselli replied.

And booze, Riley added.

Kicking ass, Hickman said, waving a clenched fist.

Right, and sports, Mike Torro added.

So what’s so different now? Hickman argued. I mean, that’s what kids are into today!

Maybe, but think about it, Carter insisted. We were carefree then. Our biggest worry was who was going to score the beer and the rubbers…ah, of course the latter not intended to include the use of such item on any of you refined ladies, as, of course, all of you certainly were back then.

Hey, Carter, you still got that rubber you used to loan out? Coselli blurted out.

Carter’s face reddened, then he motioned as though searching his pocket for the object of their conversation. His community rubber indeed had been famous!

Amidst the laughter, when Carter saw that Coselli was about to go into detail about his famous loaner, Carter quickly moved to change the subject.

Anyway, we were a nation of hell-raising, generally honorable, moralistic, patriots when we graduated. But a very short time later there evolved a nation of self-indulgent, drug sucking, uninhibited, often very afraid teen-agers, who slowly grew into self indulgent, drug sucking, uninhibited, often very afraid, adults.

All that because of Viet Nam and the Beetles? John Riley cried, his hands shooting upward as he spoke.

Not because of those things alone, John, Carter replied. Actually, it began even earlier than the ‘50’s—during the Second World War to be specific. Then came the Civil Rights movement and—

You mean the black man is responsible for the negative changes you mentioned? Pam Riley exclaimed.

They called them Negroes back then, Carter said with raised eyebrows and a pedantic smile. Anyway, I think the black man’s rebellion conditioned us to accept protest and civil disobedience as a way of life. When Viet Nam came the public felt no qualms about rebelling against whatever it was told it was not supposed to like, the war in this case…at least a vocal segment of that public didn’t like it, probably fearing for their own lives more than anything else.

Most of us missed Viet Nam, Mangio said, thinking aloud.

Right, Carter returned. At least we were not really a part of the rebellious mentality of those who graduated after us—the ones who were the first to get involved with the war—including both those who went straight into the Service, and the protesters here at home. College students mainly.

I guess we were lucky, Pam Riley sighed. Although she graduated with her husband, she didn’t seriously date him until after his divorce from his first wife, which occurred years later. I mean we didn’t have a care in the world back then, as opposed to those who followed us, she added.

You know, I was just thinking, Kathleen Torro began. I mean, just listening to you guys talk…well…I just find it sort of difficult to believe that you maniacs are actually sitting here carrying on an intelligent conversation. I mean, when I think about how you were in high school!

What do you mean, Torro, this is a Rhodes Scholars’ table if there ever was one! Rich Coselli blustered, his eyes wide with indignation.

As they spoke, a strikingly attractive woman with flowing blonde hair came to a halt just behind David Carter’s chair.

What have I been missing here? she said with the same smile that had over forty years before captured the hearts of an untold number of young men.

Mary O’Connor! several voices exclaimed in unison.

Carter quickly stood to face the girl he had loved throughout high school, and longer. Unfortunately, he had lacked the courage to tell Mary of these burning emotions—until it was too late!

Join us, Mary, Terry Mangio said, motioning the newcomer to sit.

Carter felt his pulse quicken as he secured an empty chair from the adjoining table and placed it next to him.

Once situated, Mary was urged to summarize the events of her life over the years. She hesitated at first, but Terry Mangio insisted.

Well, as some of you know, I taught school in Africa with my husband, Dan. We had one child before Dan was drafted. He returned to resume our work and was killed not long before our 1989 class reunion.

David’s eyes rushed to meet those of the woman at his side, but Mary’s gaze rested somewhere across the table.

I stayed there to teach after that and only recently returned to the States. I settled down in La Jolla…I’m in the real estate business now.

No more teaching? Terry asked.

Mary smiled and shrugged her exposed tanned shoulders. Not for awhile, I need the money, she replied with a smile.

No remarriage, huh Mary? Jean Forset asked.

No, was Mary’s only reply. And when she looked up, just for fraction of a second, her eyes met those of David Carter.

So, what was all the commotion about before I interrupted you? Mary asked, as though wishing to change the subject.

Terry Mangio offered her the answer. Oh, we were just discussing our views about how things have changed since we graduated.

Mary rolled her still sparkling blue eyes, ran her fingers through her long blonde hair, then shook her head. Hum, things have changed a great deal, if you ask me, she sighed. For one thing, people aren’t as crazy as you guys were!

Right on! exclaimed a chorus of voices.

Mary flashed a grin; then her face became serious. Oh, they’re crazy today all right, but they are crazy-mean. Desperate. Drugs have done it, but that’s not all.

You know, Mary, interrupted Andrea, I graduated in 1974, that’s what, twenty-five years ago. Anyway, I went to my ten-year reunion, in ’84, and you know what? They voted not to have another reunion, ever! They just didn’t care anymore, I guess. I mean like some of them were really weird.

And how had they changed? Mary asked.

Funny thing is, unlike your generation, most of them hadn’t changed much at all. There were tons of ‘druggies’ there, just like in school. Almost everyone I talked to was either divorced, or they had not bothered to get married at all. You know the living together thing. The real shocker was how few of them, married or divorced, had any children.

Carter, always the master of sarcasm and the understatement, grinned. Sort of career-oriented folks, he said.

Right, Andrea agreed. Career was all anyone talked about. It seemed as though everyone was trying to impress on everyone else how successful he or she had become. Like boring, boring, boring!

So, anyway, Carter said, locking his hands behind his head and leaning his chair back slightly, we’ve got the rise of civil disobedience, the Civil Rights movement, the death of Kennedy, the war in Viet Nam, the Beetles, and the emerging drug culture.

Okay, so? said Pam Riley, not sure what Carter was getting at.

So, as a result of these events, our era became overshadowed and a new era was born.

And now we have come full circle, Rich Coselli theorized. Or, if not full circle, kids are at least sort of heading back toward the way we were in the ‘Fifties.

I don’t know, Rich, they still have a long way to go, Carter said. He seemed sad as he spoke. Maybe they play our music on the radio, call ‘em ‘oldies’, you know? They might even do a nostalgia bit on television once in a while, or mock us on Saturday Night Live, but people will never completely return to the morals and values of the ‘Fifties. Not ever. Fact is they’re going the opposite way!

And hell, today’s kids, Coselli began, I mean, they don’t even know about Viet Nam. Their war was the Gulf War, and no one protested that. There wasn’t time. Anyway, no one protests anymore, except for maybe the anti-abortion people, or the homos, they’ve been making a lot of noise ever since the AIDS thing started. So, I’d say the kids of today are a whole lot like our generation was, except for the way they dress.

Yeah, I can imagine what would have happened had one of us guys come to school wearing a friggin’ earring like everyone wears now! Bob Hickman said with a scowl.

Everyone laughed.

It was like everyone would agree that the owner of the earring would need to be smeared (smeared with lipstick), canned (dumped ass first into a large trashcan and rolled down the nearest stairway), then pantsed (had their Levis ripped off, along with their underwear), sending them on a mad dash for cover!

Carter turned to Bob Hickman. Even more than that, Bob, something else has made them a hell of a lot different from us.

Drugs, Mary O’Connor nodded.

Drugs, Carter affirmed. That’s the difference. They can copy the way we were all they want, the drugs they take make them different.

The pause that followed seemed to suggest that everyone was in basic agreement with Carter’s overall assessment.

It was Andrea who finally broke the silence. I wish I could have been there to witness the ‘Fifties. A strange longing spread across her face as she spoke.

It wasn’t all that great, Babe, Coselli said. He smiled affectionately and stroked his girlfriend’s bare shoulder as he spoke.

I’d at least like to read about it, Andrea sighed.

How about ‘American Graffiti’? Mike Torro said. You could read that. Or rent the movie. That or maybe ‘Rebel Without A Cause’. I’m sure they’re still in book form—if they’re not out of print by now.

Hell, ‘Graffiti’ took place in Hollywood or the San Fernando Valley or something, said John Forset, who, surprisingly, had not said much until now. But he wasn’t finished. Besides, the events in that story could have happened in any era. The Fifties era wasn’t described all that much in ‘Graffiti’…maybe the drive-in part, and the drag race, that sort of thing. And ‘Rebel’ was a pretty good story, for openers, but it didn’t really show what life was like back then; just a few incidences. It was more about James Dean’s character than anything else.

John Riley looked at John Forset. Aside from Forset’s massive gut, he looked the same as he did thirty years before, with his large bear of a frame and all. The only thing missing now was his flat top.

Now don’t get pissed, Big John, Riley laughed. Besides, what do you have against Hollywood and the Valley?

Too many damned fruits! Forset grumbled. And anyway, there weren’t any fruits in the ‘Fifties!

Laughter.

Bull shit! What about Tommy Jenkens and Bernard Waldon?

More laughter.

Who were they? Andrea demanded, still not sure what a fruit was. Nevertheless, she seemed to devour every word of what was being said.

They were the guys who pushed around the movie projectors from class to class. You know, the audio-visual boys.

Hell, they weren’t fruits…they just wore their pants a little high, lisped Hickman, an exaggerated look of seriousness on his face as he spoke.

You guys! Andrea shouted.

No, no kidding, Andrea, Carter began. If there were any homosexuals back then they sure as hell kept it to themselves; stayed in the closet type of thing, you know?

Right. We sort of frowned on homosexuality back then, Forset agreed. Not like today. Hell, today every other kid swishes around with a fuc—with an earring in his ear!

Well, doesn’t it depend on which ear he has pierced? Kathleen Torro asked, her head cocked to one side as she spoke.

Don’t matter to me, Forset replied. One ear or the other, he’s still a fag if he wears earrings!

Hey, Forset! Bob Hickman began, his brow furrowed, his mouth turned downward, What’s that saying? A guy who hates fags with a passion is afraid he himself might be a little swishy. Wasn’t that what we used to say?

I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, John Forset grumbled, his eyes closed, his head turned upward slightly to show his disgust. Then he slid his hand beneath the table onto Rich Coselli’s thigh.

Look out! Coselli shouted, springing from his seat.

Pam Riley tisked and rolled her eyes. And these are supposed to be grown man!

They’ll never grow up, Jean Forset said.

Mary O’Connor leaned forward and placed her clasped hands on the table. Would you ever want them to? she asked.

Jean Forset stretched a broad smile across her own face and shook her head. Of course her answer was, No.

You know, Dave, Pam Riley began a moment later, Sure sounds as though you’ve been doin’ a heap of thanking own this subject.

David Carter smiled at the southern drawl Pam had managed to retain for the past thirty years. He paused for a moment as though debating whether or not he wanted to say what was on his mind. Then he shrugged his shoulders. You know, he began, there is a new novel out. It’s about this very subject, the 1950s. In fact, I hear it’s about our class, the class of ‘59. I think it’s supposed to take place around Temple City, I think.

John Riley’s eyes widened. No shit? Who wrote it? he said. I mean, how do you know about it?

Carter looked at his friend, who, on his tiptoes, stood no more than sixty-five inches. Mousy was the name Carter and Hickman had branded him with when he first transferred to T.C. from John Muir High School in Pasadena. It suited him too, with his long ski-bob nose and pointed ears. Fact is the only major difference between Mousy and a real mouse was acne. Later, when his face cleared enough to determine his true features, it was discovered that John was indeed quite a handsome little mouse!

Carter snapped out of his reverie. I don’t know for sure, John, he replied. And anyway, the person who wrote it obviously used a pen name.

Andrea perked up. You mean this book is already out? she said, the excitement of youth lighting her face.

David Carter nodded. I don’t know. I guess it is, or it’s going to be out soon.

Where can we get it? John Forset exclaimed. He couldn’t believe he might be immortalized in a novel.

The guy who told me about it said it will hit this area in a few months. I think he said in October or something.

Did he say what the title is?

Carter looked at Andrea and smiled at her enthusiasm.

I think he said the title is, ‘Making Out.’

That’s wild, Jim Mangio said. Double-meaning, right?

I think so, Carter nodded. In our day it meant ‘getting by’, or as a question: ‘How well did you do?’ Later it meant, ah—

Petting! Andrea cried. Isn’t that the word they used back then?

Right, Carter replied with a wink at Rich Coselli.

Like pot was something you cooked in, Coselli said, returning the wink. And you didn’t smoke grass, you cut it, or laid on it.

And Coke was a drink, Mike Torro added, tilting his head backward as though drinking the fizzy beverage from his thumb.

You got it, Carter said.

This is exciting! Pam Riley said, bouncing slightly on her chair. I might be in the presence of real live celebrities!

Carter held up his hands. Hey, maybe the guy is full of it. I mean, maybe there is no book. Or maybe it isn’t about us, or our school, or maybe it won’t sell, or be widely circulated.

Well, if there is a book, about us, we’ll buy a couple thousand copies, just us at this table, Forset replied. And with Forset’s money he could most likely have bought the company publishing it as well!

You got it, Coselli said.

It’s settled then, Carter said. It looks like we’re going to make it a best seller, if it exists.

Hey, it’s not settled yet, Kathleen Torro said, I still want to know who told you about this book, David Carter?

Yeah, and who wrote it? Coselli added. Like maybe it was you, Carter!

Nah, not me, a guy named Tim Caster told me about it, Carter returned. He said someone named Lawrence Walker wrote it. Walker is obviously the pen name for someone we must all know quite well. Or maybe this Walker interviewed someone, you know, got the information from someone we all know quite well. Carter’s eyes suddenly narrowed. Then he began to peer around the table as though to weed out the culprit.

Don’t look at me! I just print things for a living, John Forset, owner of a multi-million dollar printing franchise, said.

Did he say what the book is about, David? asked the ever inquisitive Andrea.

David cleared his throat. I haven’t read it, but Caster said it’s about the very things we’ve been discussing here tonight. That’s what made me think of it. Anyway, it explains in detail why things changed; also, the year 1963 seems to be quite important. But, that’s all I know. The term ‘Baby Boomer’ is used a lot, but I don’t know anymore about it then that.

Kathleen Torro suddenly seemed nervous. Is there anything in it that will cause any of us to, ah, get red faces? she asked.

I don’t know, doll, David said. Like I say, I haven’t read it. It depends on who wrote it; whether he, or she, had a bone to pick with any one of us, or all of us. I mean, I’d say it had to have been written by someone fairly close to us, close enough to have a lot on us, if you know what I mean.

John Forset, in his customarily gruff, yet lovable tone, turned to his wife. And your face is going to be the reddest of all! Hell, I’ll bet he knows everything you did, you naughty thing!

Jean Forset pretended to bury her head in her arms, causing her husband’s six foot five, 280 pound body used to support his prize-winning belly to shake with laughter.

I think we’re in trouble, Pam Riley said, feigning apprehension.

Don’t worry, her husband said in an assuring tone. He probably didn’t use our real names. Besides, we weren’t going together then, so you’re safe.

You mean my real name wasn’t used? Rich Coselli cried.

Hell, I hope he did use our real names, Carter laughed. I mean, let’s face it, none of you guys would be smart enough to figure out who the hell is who, if he didn’t use our real names.

Gee, thanks, Carter, John Riley said.

No, but really, why should we care? Carter continued. It probably won’t make the best seller list or anything. Besides, just deny it if someone asks you about the part you play in it, whether you did this or that. If you don’t like what’s been said, just deny it.

Bob Hickman was about to speak, but Carter interrupted him.

Oh yeah, I’m sure you’re in it, Bob. And I’m also sure the author didn’t use anything close to your real name. I mean, you pulled so much shit that he was probably afraid you’d be hauled off to jail if he used your right name—the statute of limitations notwithstanding.

The Class of l959 ended their 1999 forty-year reunion night with a toast, the bearing of their special flag, the singing of their Alma Mater, and a promise to meet again in 2009. No one knew who would be there ten years down the line, but that didn’t matter. What mattered to the group sitting with David Carter was that many of them were going to be immortalized in a novel. A name or two might be changed, then again, maybe not. Who would care?

For the next few months Carter’s friends impatiently waited for their story to hit the shelves, all the while wondering how accurate it would be, and whether this Lawrence Walker would sacrifice current day sensationalism for truth.

CHAPTER TWO

SH-BOOM

DAVID CARTER AROSE TO ANSWER his doorbell.

UPS, the man in the brown uniform said.

Carter wondered what could be in the heavy box now in his arms. Then he saw the name on the upper left-hand corner: CASTER-NORTON PUBLISHING COMPANY.

Here it is, he said with a tight grin. He quickly opened the box and eyed its contents: fifteen hard cover copies, compliments of the publisher, his publisher.

Making Out, he said, with a tone bordering reverence. Then he lifted a copy and breathed deeply of the smell of fresh paper and ink. I did it. I still can’t believe it. He was excited because this was his first full length novel. He had two other shorter works under his belt, and they were relatively successful under the same pen name, Lawrence Walker, but this one was very special; this one was a real book!

Sandwiched between the two top books was a letter:

David:

Here, as promised, are the copies of your novel, Making Out. It’s due to hit the shelves in your neighborhood by the end of the month. We hope you enjoy our work as much as we enjoy yours. Hope to be hearing from you soon. By the way, your new proposal entitled, Payback, Incorporated, sounds very interesting. Send us a synopsis.

Let’s shoot for a million copies on this one.

Your friend,

Tim Caster.

Carter eased himself into his favorite overstuffed leather chair. He looked at the dust cover of his book and grinned. Among the other items pictured was a condom, a pair of black shades and a 1959 Buick. I still can’t believe it, he softly said, contemplating at the same time the title he and his publisher had finally chosen: Making Out.

It was an appropriate title, to be sure. However, he wasn’t too thrilled about having to use his pen name. He wished he could have used his real name this time, but it was thought best—by those in the know—to do otherwise.

Oh well, who cares? Carter said. I’ll shoot for fame with my next book. One side of his mouth turned upward. This time he’d have to let his protagonist, David Nickelson, get all the glory. Besides, Lawrence Walker, David Carter, David Nickelson—they were all one and the same. Anyone who knew him would quickly be able to figure that out.

Thoughts plaguing every writer suddenly began to taunt him. Did he create an adequate hook in the first several pages? The first chapter? Did he take too long laying his foundation? Did he wait too long to describe David Nickelson’s features? Would the reader keep turning the pages during the first few chapters, or would he or she stop, erroneously concluding that his novel was written more for young kids than for adults? Did he tell too much? Show too much? Were his love scenes too explicit? Not explicit enough? Would people complain that his characters weren’t developed enough, especially Nickelson? And Bob Hickman. Carter knew Hickman would be loved, but would the reader wait long enough to really know and love the main character, David Nickelson?

Hey, hell with them, he finally thought to himself, it is what it is. And anyway, it’s out of my hands now. It’s up to the public. So read on, John Q, he said aloud, this time spreading his arms wide, and I’ll tell you what, no one is going to stay neutral about this story. You can count on that.

David Carter turned to the first page of his book and slowly ran his fingers across the opening paragraph. I’m coming, he said, as though being called to travel its pages one more time. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, than began:

(")Making Out

A Novel

By

Lawrence Walker

DAVID NICKELSON WAS ON THE verge of crapping his pants! Summer, 1953, was over. In a matter of days he would be entering the Seventh grade at Oak Avenue Junior High School, in Temple City, a quaint little suburb on the outskirts of Los Angeles.

He was worried because of the stories he had heard about what the upperclassmen—the 8th, 9th, and 10th graders—were prone to do to the incoming freshmen. He could look forward to one or more of the following: getting pantsed, smeared, canned, or, on a more mundane level, getting the living shit kicked out of him!

Getting smeared with lipstick or canned (stuffed into a large garbage can and possibly rolled down a long stairway), was something he could live with. And getting the daylights kicked out of him was no big deal. His older brother, Richard-the-weight-lifter, had stomped his skinny ass somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty thousand times by the time little David had reached the age of ten. And that’s not counting the blows he had endured at the hands of his father. Indeed, those trials merely served to season him for what was soon to come.

It was, however, the prospect of getting pantsed that horrified young David. After all, no one had ever seen his dick—let alone his sixth-grade-sized balls—except, of course, his immediate family, and old Doctor Woods. And in the last several years, only Doctor Woods had seen his scrawny naked hide.

     But the idea of the girls seeing his pecker made him sick to his stomach. They had no right to see his private parts! If he had to kill the entire upper class to prevent it, he would find a way.

His big brother would be of little help in terms of saving him from the perils to come. Nobody even knew David had a brother seven years older than him. And anyway, Richard wouldn’t have lifted a finger to help his little brother; he always thought it funny when David got his butt whipped.

It’s good for you, he would say. Toughen you up, you little candy ass! he would say.

Yeah, well screw you, DICK, David shouted one time after just such an incident. Then Richard beat him up!

School opened and the hazing began, but amazingly, David was left alone. It seemed a miracle. Unfortunately, it was a different story for his friend, Gary Horton.

Gary was the product of a broken home, an oddity in those days, as divorce had not yet become a popular alternative to getting along. As a result, he carried around a chip on his shoulder the size of a giant Sequoia!

Because of his embittered attitude, Gary’s first week of school was less than a pleasant one for him. In other words, Horton’s big mouth got him smeared, canned, beat up, and horror of horrors, pantsed—pantsed so often every girl in the school could sketch his pecker by merely closing her eyes and picturing it, which some of them undoubtedly did, as Gary’s tube was the first semi-hairy projection many of them had seen in real life!

Gary Horton, however, wasn’t the only one to be pantsed. David witnessed plenty of other episodes during those first few weeks. He’d be sitting in class, or at lunch under the awning, walking down the hall, or out on the athletic field preparing his body for an early death, and there would go some poor bastard, stark-ass naked, one hand covering his dick and balls (one hand could often cover everything growing on a 7th grader), the other hand covering the crack of his ass as he galloped toward the locker room for cover.

As opposed to Gary Horton, David had learned how and when to keep his mouth shut. Therefore, he greased the first few weeks of 7th grade without a serious mishap. This safe period allowed him the luxury of doing some serious learning about how to survive, and even more important, how to act.

David’s first lesson involved learning how to walk. The way a stud walked said a great deal about who, and what, he was, and David was determined to walk right at all times.

If a guy wanted to impress his classmates that he was not square, that he was cool, a bad-ass, or generally not afraid of shit, he walked with a sort of bounce. The head needed to bob forward ever so slightly with each step, and the heels needed to drag on the ground, heightening the effect if horseshoe taps were worn. For a finishing touch, the arms had to be held away from the sides. In other words, a cool guy tried his best to look like a teen-age gorilla!

If a 7th grader walked like this in front of the wrong upperclassman, he was asking to immediately get his ass stomped. Thus, a freshman did not walk in such a manner unless he was stupid, or in the presence of other 7th graders, or 8th graders known to be wimps. David Nickelson wasted no time mastering the walk.

Nickelson’s next step was to learn the pecking order. Put more succinctly, he had to experience it; he had to find his niche within it. This involved learning where he fit on both the bad-ass scale, and athlete profile scale.

These scales were simple to understand. His niche on the bad-ass scale was determined by whose ass David could, or could not, kick. This did not require having to fight every guy in the entire school. If it merely looked like he could do the job, it was usually more than enough.

This look aspect involved a gut feeling. You looked at a guy and said to yourself, "Shit,