Vicky's Story

"His Name Was Bob"

As I put up that title, I am reminded of a Reba McEntire song titled "She Thinks His Name Was John." It's a song about a woman dying of AIDS.
How lucky we were, in the 60's, not to have the HIV virus running rampant. How lucky we were to have those simpler times. Rather puts my pain and suffering into a bit different perspective.

His name was Bob. He drove a maroon ’58 chev. and he was the best looking guy I had ever seen...
It was 1962, I was 15 and ready to get my driver’s license. My mom, wanting me to have the freedom that she never had, took me out and bought me my very own shiny, white, ’55 chev! It was a four door but I didn’t care. I didn't even know the difference. It was cool and therefore so was I! I wasn’t even 16, didn’t even have a license and my car was waiting! I was hot!
When I arrived at Ballard High School two years before, my youth was left behind. I entered a world where money and prestige was the name of the game and I didn’t know how to play. I felt very left out.
Two junior high schools fed into Ballard High. One was from the "right side of the tracks" and then there was the "other." I was from the "other."
Junior high school had been great. I liked school and was eager to learn. Ballard High School was an entirely different story. There were social clubs, "cliques," and I did not fit in. Who I was didn’t matter, what I had, did.
My parents had divorced when I was 12 and my mom went to work in a tavern. In the 18 years that my parents were married, my mom had never worked so this $1.25 an hour job in a bar was all she could get. We lived in a rented house in a run down neighborhood.
As soon as I turned 16, during my junior year at Ballard, I was out of there. I graduated but I don't know how. I had my ’55 chev., I had my driver's license, I had my freedom and I was gone!
The University of Washington wasn’t far away and that is where I headed. Big time, big car, big girl! I would find fun, excitement and acceptance. They wouldn’t know me there. I could be whoever I said I was. I wouldn’t have to feel ashamed of my lack of a family, my lack of money, my lack of "normalcy."
I spent a lot of time with the fraternity boys at the University of Washington and in particular, I spent time at a nearby drive-in called "The Burgermaster." We named it "The Burg," for short. Everything in those days had a nickname. Back then, it was one of the ways in which we stayed independent as teenagers.
Hanging out at "The Burg" on Friday and Saturday night was the biggest event in my life. My best friend, Sandy, and I would put $2.00 worth of gas in the ’55 and off we would go.
"The Burg" had great cheeseburgers, better fries and amazing Tom and Jerry shakes...but...that isn’t why we hung out there. At 16, it was mating season 365 days a year and "The Burg" was the nest we most haunted.
I don’t remember the first time I saw Bob but it was definitely at "The Burg." This place was so busy that they even had Vern, the traffic cop, directing cars in, one by one. Even on weeknights, cars were lined up outside the parking lot and down the block. "The Burg" was the "nightclub" for the underage crowd.
Once inside "The Burg" and we had secured a parking space, we had to order and continue to order or they would ask us to leave so that another car could come in and take our place. The early 60’s...these were the days of window trays and car-hops. (No roller skates though, the kids left them behind with the 50’s.)
I would sit in "The Burg" on Friday or Saturday night and just wait to see that souped up ’58 maroon chev. come roaring up to the line. My heart would pound in anticipation whenever Bob would arrive.
Once in "The Burg," we could get out of our cars and walk around. The guys went from car to car, cruising for the best looking girls. We, of course, just sat there, trying to look our best, and waiting to be "chosen." Sounds sick now, but when I feel being back then, it was just the way it was.
Bob was a real cutie, beautiful bright eyes and a big white smile that went ear to ear. He put peroxide in his hair every summer so he usually looked tanned and blond. I bleached my hair as well so we made a real bright looking pair.
Bob was the first boy that I ever made love to. Sad when I think about it now. The first...then the last before I would meet and marry my husband 4 years later. There were several other boys in between, but for me, Bob was the guy that I was always waiting for.
Bob and I never had a "real" date. He never did the "come to the house and meet the parents" thing. It wasn’t like that. We would meet at "The Burg" and go do the fast car, "posing" kind of thing before we would eventually wind up somewhere, making love.
I was with Bob off and on from the time I was 16 until I was almost 19. When I got pregnant, Bob and I were more together that we had ever been. I was 18, had moved into my own apartment and we were seeing more of each other. I was working as a file clerk making my "family standard" $1.25 an hour and Bob was working at Boeing doing quite a bit better.
When I found out I was pregnant, I didn't tell Bob. He was an exciting guy, a fun guy and someone that I wanted to be with more than anything. But the truth was...I wasn’t. I was never really "with" Bob. I was simply a pleasant looking accouterment. Our relationship was not the boy meets girl relationship that I had always dreamed of. I wasn’t Shelly Fabre and he wasn’t Ricki Nelson. I hadn’t held myself as "that" kind of girl so of course I did not attract "that" kind of guy. Bob and my relationship felt almost clandestine and in that, it was definitely not marriage material.
I did not believe that Bob would marry me if I told him I was pregnant. I was not willing to tell him and hear that reality. Not telling Bob kept me with some assemblance of self respect and I needed that to hold onto. I needed to feel that not marrying Bob was entirely my decision. I didn’t need to feel rejected. I couldn’t bare that shame along with everything else that I had and knew I was about to go through.

Back

Reunions Index

Next

To Vicky.com