LOYD BURL AND THE HOOTER’S GIRL

CHAPTER 4

Sunday, April 5, 1987

A FRIEND LOVES AT ALL TIMES (Proverbs 17:17)

            As my custom was, I drove my 1980 Ford Courier nineteen miles to my parent’s home in Cedar Rapids every Sunday. I would pick up my mom in my little pickup, and we would go to church. Then we would return to the house I grew up in and have lunch. Often a brother or two would join us.

            Upon returning to campus, my mind kept playing and replaying all of the dialogue I had with Cat. When I returned to my apartment at 2 pm, my roommate Kyle had just gotten out of bed, stumbling to the coffee maker as he scratched himself. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Yet it was he that was critical of me just one day ago for arising from slumber during a PM hour. I told him as much.

            “There is a clear difference, my good man,” Kyle told me. Then making a face, he released some flatulence, causing me to take a couple steps back from him. He continued, “I was up into the wee hours of the morning engaging in passion with a lovely female. You my friend had been up into the wee hours of the morning reading.”

            It was true. I had acquired a book called ‘Mere Christianity’ by C.S. Lewis, and I couldn’t put it down. I pursued the matter no further. I grabbed a white laundry bag that held a half dozen footballs, and headed to a field that used to be Whitney College’s practice field before they built a new facility. Thankfully, the grounds keeper kept the old one mowed.

            The field was behind a couple acres of woods with a trail in the middle leading from the road to the semi secluded field. I frequently retreated there to kick my footballs. It was peaceful and quiet, and I only saw other people from a distance walking to various buildings on the campus. But on Sundays, I rarely saw another human being while abiding there.

            So imagine my surprise when a person emerged from the woods right when I booted my third football high into the air. She was easy to spot in her bright orange shorts and white top that said ‘Hooter’s’ across her chest. You guessed it, it was Catalina Clutterbuck.

            With mouth agape, she watched the football I had just kicked sail high and far through the air. I watched her watching the oblong object. I was so stunned to see her standing thirty feet from me in this semiprivate spot, I didn’t know what to think.

            “Hello, Pebble,” she said.

            “Hello, Pebbles,” I returned. Trying to hide my sudden panic at the surprise of seeing her here where I have never encountered another person before, I resorted to humor. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

            To my chagrin, she didn’t laugh. She put her hands on her hips in a scolding posture. “Trying to discover why I watched you cross the road with a white bag hanging from your shoulder and entering into some woods.”

            “I give up,” I replied with sheepish grin.

            Obviously she had worked the lunch shift at her restaurant. I recalled our conversation about her, although seeming prudish, working at a place where she had to wear a sexy uniform. She had deferred it from being sexy to appearing athletic. Fair point, it did consist of sneakers and gym shorts. But as I gazed at her in the warm afternoon sunshine after a crisp morning, you could not deny the sensual aspect to the uniform.

            “By the way, would you mind calling me Cat? I don’t mind my work nickname, but I’m also not crazy about it.”

            “Same here,” I told her. “Call me Loyd or…”

            Shyness stopped me from adding other possibilities. But she urged it out of me, saying, “Or what?”

            I shrugged, “How about Stud Muffin?”

            To my delight, she laughed. It was a nice laugh, and it lit up her lovely face from the dark brooding countenance I had thus far become familiarized. She asked, “How about M and M?”

            “M and M?” I frowned. “Like the colorful chocolatey candy that’s very sweet?”

            “And has nuts in the middle.”

            “You mean peanut rather than plain.”

            “No,” she said, snatching a football from my hands. Grinning she said, “By M and M, I mean Mystery Man.”

            “I’m no mystery man,” I chuckled. “I’m a simple man.”

            “Simple my foot. I admit you had me thinking that when I agreed to go out with you. Then last night, you fearlessly do a Chuck Norris imitation. Now I discover that you’re actually on the football team.”

            “Last night I wasn’t fearless, and I’m not on the football team.”

            She frowned. “So that kick I just saw that went around sixty yards was a fluke?”

            “Well, no.”

            She tossed me the football. “Kick it again.”

            I got nervous at her demand, and observational critique. I shanked the ball. It didn’t even go twenty yards forward but went thirty yards sideways.

            “So it was a fluke,” she said with a touch of merriment.

            Embarrassment made me a little feisty. I picked up another football and boomed a high spiral almost seventy yards.

            “So tell me, M and M. Why do you practice kicking footballs if you’re not on the football team?”

            I shrugged. “I enjoy it. I like the exercise. Plus, growing up I acquired a football every Christmas right up until high school. So, I figured I might as well make use of them.”

            “Well let me tell you, a boyfriend from high school played football, and I dated a guy that played football for Whitney for six months. I’ve seen football. So let me tell you, you have a special talent!”

            I never thought of myself as the jealous type, but I guess I was. I had resented my co-worker Becky’s husband. When she divorced and began dating what I perceived as a controlling, macho prig, I hated it. When I overheard her talking lingerie purchases with another woman, I felt sick. So when Cat mentioned former boyfriends, I felt serious agitation.

            “Well, thank you, Cat. Two of my brothers have observed me kicking and told me the same thing.”

            “So why don’t you try out?”

            “I’m just not interested. Forgive me, but I’ve gotten my fill of macho jock types just from my family. I’d rather just focus on my artwork.”

            “You’re artist?”

            “Yeah, I told you I’m an art student.”

            “I thought you meant like art history or becoming an art teacher.”

            “Well, that too. Most artists can’t make a living off of it.”

            “What kind of art do you do?”

            “Mostly painting and drawing.”

            “Me too!” she cooed. “I want to see your work!”

            “I want to see yours!” I declared.

            “I bet you do,” she replied, her voice sultry, her eyes teasing. Then her face became serious, as if she regretted being flirtatious. “Did I see you leaving town around nine this morning in a little white truck?”

            “Well, yeah, I did leave town around nine this morning in my little white truck.”

            “Where were you going?”

            “Aren’t we nosey?” I teased.

            She didn’t seem to find my comment funny. She shrugged. “I just thought you might have another surprise up your sleeve. I mean, last night you do a really good Chuck Morris imitation. Now this afternoon I find you on this hidden field kicking like an NFL punter. So yes, I am curious what surprising thing you might have been doing in between.”

            “Nothing surprising,” I shrugged. “I’m from Cedar Rapids, and every Sabbath morning I go back home and take my mother to church.”

            “That’s very sweet of you,” she said with a genuine smile. She even touched my arm, but then her expression became serious. “But today is not the Sabbath.”

            Since we had first met only days ago, she had looked at me like I had two heads on more than one occasion. Now it was my turn. Puzzled, I asked, “What do you call it?”

            “The venerable day of the sun,” she replied merrily. “Also known as the first day of the week. Also known as Sunday.”

            “Yes,” I replied as if I was talking to a child. “And to most of the world it is known as the Sabbath.”

            “Most of the world be wrong,” she replied lightheartedly as she poked me in the chest. “The Sabbath is the seventh day according to the ten commandments. Do you know who wrote the ten commandments?”

            “Of course I do. God wrote it with his own finger.”

            “Correct, so how did most of Christendom end up keeping Sunday instead of the direct command of God?”

            “I don’t know.”

            “Well I’ll enlighten you, Brother Loyd,” she said cheerily.

            I didn’t like her calling me brother, when I wanted to be her lover.

            “Roman emperor Constantine made Sunday as the Sabbath prominent in 321 AD, when he made Christianity a legal religion. It wasn’t long after when the dark ages began, and this religious and political power put people to death if they didn’t follow their dictates. Look it all up in the encyclopedia.”

            “How do you know all this?”

            She shrugged. “My mom is pretty religious. She made me go to church with her, so I guess I picked up quite a bit.”

            “But you’re not religious?”

            She shrugged, and then shook her head. “I guess you could say that I lost my way.”

            “Why?”

            “Something happened when I was in high school.”

            “What?”

            “I don’t want to talk about it.”

            “Why?”

            A pained look came onto her countenance. “Let’s just say I’m not as pure as the wind driven snow, and it wasn’t necessarily my fault. Let’s say that’s the reason I come across as a witch and am very cautious with guys. So, you wouldn’t understand.”

            Her eyes began to fill with liquid, and she looked away from me. I then told her something I had never told anyone before. “Can you keep a secret?”

            She looked at me with a blank expression. A tear popped from her left eye and ran down her cheek. She shrugged. “Yeah.”

            “When I was an altar boy, a priest had me undress with him.”

            She looked stunned. “And?”

            “I fled before anything happened. But it left a scar, a deep scar. And it shook my faith.”

            Cat stepped slowly to me and said in a hoarse whisper, “I had a feeling God sent you to me.”

            We hugged then, and it felt really good. The feeling I had was more on the side of love, rather than sexual. But there was that sensual aspect. She looked almighty sexy in that Hooter’s uniform. I’d like to tell you she smelled like roses, but the predominant fragrance was burgers and fries. But it still felt beyond good! Other than the thing that was between us.

            I don’t mean the little bit we had confided to each other. I had nonchalantly picked up a football during the course of our conversation, and it pressed against both of our stomachs as we embraced.

            We held each other for a good minute. Then Cat snatched the ball from between us and took off running. I gave chase, and after about fifty yards, my arms wrapped around her, both of us laughing. I let her go, and our laughter evaporated into serious expressions.

            Before things could get awkward, Cat groping for something to say, asked, “Do you have a favorite Bible verse?”

            I took a breath and blew out a nervous sigh. “Right now I’d have to say Song of Solomon chapter one verse two.”

            She smiled and said, “Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth—for his love is better than wine.”

            So I kissed somebody on the lips for the very first time.