When "gettin' lucky" morphs from a home-run to a... fowl ball?
“Another bourbon, Sam,” I ordered while watching Mick Jagger’s music video, Lucky In Love, playing on the tavern’s fancy new jukebox. The crafty rendition held me captive, sending me back some fifty years.
Well, whoop-de-do for you, Mick, I facetiously grinned. But let me tell ya, friend, "gettin’ lucky" wasn't always so damned lovey-dovey for me. And I ain’t talkin’ about catching crabs or 'had to do the right thing' and stuff, either. But for me, it was more like gettin' ‘un-lucky’ in, um... let's just say in the most embarrassing ways.
Ah-h-h, yes, good whiskey breeds good memories, and with Little Deuce Coupe now playing in the background, I was hopelessly lost in nostalgia. After graduating high school, all I ever cared about was getting a Corvette no matter how much a “rat” it might be to fit my $100-a-week salary as a stockboy. I was twenty when I finally found one; a shabby ’62 in need of tires and a paint job, yet "the right tool for this dude" I'd say while cruising the main drag or rumbling into local burger joints looking to pick up pretty little “rides.”
One day, I managed to corral a dainty dish for a spin around town. What a doll. The perky little pixie turned out to be sweeter than nature's nectar to a hummingbird. We became an item from the git-go, and after months of movies, milkshakes, or chancing hot and heavy embraces on mama's sofa, things eventually morphed into an eyebrow-flickin' plan for hanky-panky. Gonna get lucky tonight, I tittered.
I knew of a lonely stretch of country road just outside town, sort of a parker's paradise for a secluded rendezvous of romance. The night was dark as Cooter’s Cave under overcast skies, but I soon spotted an opening in the roadside foliage. I couldn’t see a blasted thing, but carefully backed off the road just enough to hide the nose. Since Corvettes are tight two-seaters, I came prepared with a bedroll and spread it out behind. Within minutes, we were stripped and soon slippin' and slidin' in the heat of passion when─ BLINK. Headlights suddenly popped on from about thirty feet deeper in the wood.
Good─God─Almighty! Talk about pure panic? How does one gracefully untangle and scurry for scattered clothes and cover─ center stage in the spotlight?
Oh my, how we were ever so em-bare-assed. My reflexive grin widened with another sip of Kentucky's finest as I recalled it wasn’t the only time things went south while gettin’ lucky. About a year later, I had been getting pretty chummy with a frisky redhead for a month or so when one balmy Saturday at high noon, the mating mood was mutual. This time, I drove further out in the country, grabbed the bedroll and trekked what seemed like three miles into the wilderness where even Daniel Boone couldn't find us. Wrong!
While in the throes of amorous intimacies, a pack of Cub Scouts out hiking on a weekend badge-earner ambled over a knoll and abruptly stopped barely fifty feet away─ mesmerized by a front-row view of the birds and bees in motion. Whether Cub Scouts or older jack-booted recruits, I suppose uniformed youth had to learn military commands at some point or other, but why at my expense, Lord?
"About face! March!" the den mother barked while physically spinning little bodies 180 degrees, likely having to fumble through a barrage of curious questions while traipsing back to wherever in hell they came from. Just my rotten luck! Twice tempted, twice bit.
I felt like trading the damned Corvette for a ten-yard dump truck. Maybe not a sporty chick-mobile, but at least it had plenty of space inside steel walls about twelve feet off the ground. But given my luck? No sooner would we be down and doin’ it when a TV News helicopter would fly overhead at tree-top level, tracking a fugitive who would spring from the bush, jump in and steal it as cameras fed live coverage of the two of us bouncing around like pinball's, desperately trying to don clothing before a bastion of trailing squad cars could end the chase. No thanks.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. Third time lucky, so go for it, right? Well it doesn’t always work that-a-way either, amiqo.
Years later, I was quite serious about a special gal who had her own condo; my chancy Corvette days were over! Aside from a gazillion shoes and handbags, she also owned a cockatiel bought from a local breeder shortly after weaning. She may have raised him to be a champ at imitating speech, but he never did learn to fly worth a hoot. Thus, content and cheerful, he spent 99% of his time talking and playing with toys atop his cage.
That is until one quiet afternoon while engaged in a moment of carnal bliss, my bride-to-be on top, for some ungodly reason her bungling bird chose that precise moment to brave one of his disastrous test flights─ and, the only dang time the clumsy cluck had ever managed to stay airborne for more than ten feet without crashing ass over tea kettle. On this sortie, he flew the entire length of her condo, straight and true and like an F-14, banked sharply right into the bedroom and with needle-nail talons extended for a kamikaze landing, zeroed in on a pair of rounded perch pads in full view. Wham!
“Argh! Jee-sus!" Shocked and wild-eyed, I lurched at impact, quickly pleading: "I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Keeko just landed on my…”
“I know!” she said with the same cross-eyed expression. “Where in hell do you think his beak is?”