Gumby Girl

In my early twenties, I developed a talent for avoiding adult relationships in favor of having fun. My relationship with Kacey Jones (yeah, her parents were real comedians) was the zenith of my good-time Charlie way of life.

Kacey was part of a group of party girls of all sizes, shapes, ages, and nationalities who came to the park to watch our softball games. We dubbed our cheerleaders the Pound Ridge Comedy. 

Kacey was my favorite, a 4’ 11” pneumatic blonde who wore nothing and blissfully knew nothing. She was a cutie in a constant state of the giggles, something I found attractive. Kacey did have one distressing trait, but it was hardly a deal breaker. She had a speech impediment. Whether it was natural or self-induced, Kacey had trouble with her r’s and w’s, frequently sounding like a feminine Elmer Fudd. Since I had conquered my stutter at an early age I bonded with her, even after she said in self-defense, “what steech impediwent?”

We got to know each other one night when the Pound Ridge Comedy stuck around to share in our post-game celebration. By the third beverage, Kacey was in full giggle mode, complimenting me about how I played.

“That catch you made was wubbery,” she said.

“Rubbery?”

“No! Wubbery!”

We stayed behind long after the crowd dispersed. I knew I might be on to something when she stole my hat and dared me to “Twy and get it back.” I chased her into the woods, and we shed our clothes, cavorting like two horny hippies at Woodstock.

After our first random encounter, Kacey didn’t show up at our next game or the one after that. I figured she was a one-time good time with no chance of a repeat performance. Then, to my immense joy, she turned up, giving me a hug, a kiss, and a high-five. After the game, she said I was “A wheely good outfielder and wheely fast.” When no one was listening, she winked, adding, “And we make a wheely good couple when it comes to the fun stuff.”

Some of the players went into town for pizza and beer, and Kacey and I tagged along. As the group left, she nonchalantly said, “Give me a wide home. My parwents are out so we can pardee.”

And pardee we did.

After my head stopped spinning, I said, hopefully, “We should do this more often.”

Her reply, uttered without the slightest impediment, summed up our relationship. “I don’t wanna be tied down.”

“Me neither.”

“Good. Then we understand won-anuthah. Hey, I got some concert tickets. You wanna go see Wes?”

“Wes who?”

“Not Wes. Wes.”

“Who’s on second?” I replied.

“Wes, whys guy.”

“So, this is a date?”

“A wheel date? Okay, let’s call it that,” Casey responded enthusiastically. “I could use some wo-mance in my wife.”

                                               ***

It took me a while to figure out we were going to see the rock group Yes instead of some musician named Wes. I also soon learned that Casey’s concept of a date differed significantly from mine. Andrea and Ellen, two other Pound Ridge Comedy charter members, were coming along.

Andrea had embraced the burgeoning punk rock attitude and look, sporting a nose ring, spikey brunette hair, and black mascara that matched her often dark mood. I often got the feeling that even though she came to our games, the only way she liked men was boiled, baked, or burnt.

Pleasant, polite Ellen went for the hippie look and outlook, wearing frilly blouses, faded jeans, and a peace-making smile. She was fond of mind-expanding experiences, which often left her even slower on the uptake than Kacey.

“One woo-al,” Kacey said when the girls arrived. Grabbing me and holding me closely, Kacey said without the hint of an impediment, “This is mine.”

I was flattered, frightened, and flabbergasted all at the same time.

Ellen and Andrea looked at Kacey blankly.

“No worries,” Andrea finally said. “I don’t think he’d last a night with me anyway.”

Although it was an early afternoon concert, Andrea seemed intent on getting a late evening buzz on early. We’d driven about a mile when she pulled out a pint of something lethal and began swigging from it. Ellen washed down her medication in a few gulps, so she reached the astral plane and was in awe of the passing scenery long before we even got to the concert.

Heading into the stadium, we got embroiled in a traffic jam. Kacey had been fine while driving at a brisk seventy, but now, with both hands bound to the wheel and her petite body practically pressed against the windshield, she seemed distressed.

“Gotta find a girl’s woom!” she announced.

Opening the door, she suddenly abandoned the vehicle.

Seated in the back, Andrea and Ellen screamed, “The wheel! Take the wheel!”

Kacey had been in such a hurry that she neglected to put the car in park. We drifted forward, banging into the car in front of us before I could jump into the driver’s seat and hit the brakes.

I got out, hoping we hadn’t done any damage to the classic Chevy Nova in front of us.

The driver, a tall ponytailed hippie, sprang out.

“Hey, man! What the !!#$@!”

I offered a meek apology. “Sorry, man. The driver unexpectedly bailed on us. She forgot to put the car in park before she left.”

Ponytail’s arms flapped like he was about to take flight.

“I just detailed this baby this morning!”

Andrea and Ellen later told me they were sure Ponytail and I were going to come to blows.

I looked down at his bumper. Then I looked at Kacey’s front grille.

“There’s no damage.”

Still flailing his arms wildly, Ponytail looked at both cars.

“Wha? Wow, man, it’s a miracle!”

Ponytail slapped me five.

“Hey, man, you goin’ in to see the concert?” he asked.

“Yes. I mean, yeah!”

“Hold on a sec!”

Running to his car, Ponytail returned with a bottle of Southern Comfort.

“How about we celebrate good luck, good music, and good friendships?”

Half a bottle later, Ponytail, (whose real name was Kenyon) and I were buddies for life. Well, at least for that concert.

Kacey returned to the car while we were still swigging Southern Comfort.

“Is that the driver?” Kenyon asked.

“That’s her.”

“Man, you’re really lucky. And you’re with two other girls? You’ve got a posse! I bow to you, man.”

Yeah, I did feel lucky. But my luck was about to run out.

                                               ***

It was an incredibly humid day, and we had to share space with 60,000 chemically altered and inebriated fans who were becoming loopy from heat prostration.

And one of the loopiest was Kacey.

As we walked in, she leaned against me, throwing both arms around my waist for support.

“I feel a bit woooseee,” she muttered.

“Woozy?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll get you some water.”

“Maybe a beeyah.”

“No more beer for you, Kace.”

“If I don’t sit down soon, I may have plewenty of woom for more,” she cautioned. “I think I’m gonna womit.”

We got to the gate before most of the other concertgoers. Usually, that would have been a plus, but since the gate was closed, it proved to be a claustrophobic mistake. Thousands of people kept pressing forward, pushing us against the fence.

“Hey, back off!” Andrea yelled. “Give us some air!”

When no one did, Andrea pushed back. A couple of docile hippies fell backward into the surging crowd.

The crowd slowly pitched forward again.

“Don’t make me get Medieval!” Andrea yelled.

“Medieval?” I asked.

“Don’t question my method of threatening lemmings,” Andrea replied.

Andrea got in the face of a bearded guy in a Yes T-shirt. He wore thick glasses and was so short he could have passed for a garden gnome.

“You testing my resolve, Yes-man?”

He backed off. Way off – but that didn’t stop everybody else from moving forward.

Ellen, who’d been pleasantly absorbed into the fourth dimension, finally spoke.

“Uh, oh.”

The surging wave of humanity knocked us to the ground. I quickly sprang up. Realizing Kacey was still down, I pulled her to her feet.

“Thanks! You know, it’s wheely hot.”

“Yeah. We’ll get you some water real soon.”

“Better make it wheel soon,” Kacey replied dreamily.

I turned to see how Andrea and Ellen were faring. Andrea was sneering at the encroaching crowd. Ellen was waving her hand in front of her face, undoubtedly enjoying whatever trippy visions her mind was manufacturing.

When I turned back to Kacey, she was lying on her back.

Since we didn’t have any water, she got her beer after all, courtesy of the bearded Yes-man.

I quickly realized that I now had Gumby on my hands instead of Elmer Fudd. After finishing her beer, Kacey became ninety-five pounds of staggering, sexy flesh.

Fortunately, the gate opened. Once inside, we put our blankets down, carving out a spot near center stage.

“Problem, lover boy,” Andrea said, pointing at Kacey.

I turned to find Kacey flat on her back again.

I checked on Ellen. She was blissfully marveling at the flight of half a dozen Frisbees that were being tossed about.

“Wow, nice trails,” she said.

That was when one of the Frisbees came down like a scythe, striking her between the eyes.

“That’ll leave a mark,” Andrea noted, watching Ellen’s nose swell up.

Since it was beastly hot, it didn’t surprise us when a cloud cover moved in, threatening to unleash a thunderstorm. A man with a mountain of black hair came out on stage and began playing the keyboards, ignoring the very real possibility he could be zapped by lightning at any moment. He played for ten minutes, then, as if on cue, the dark clouds parted, and the sun returned. We gave the keyboard player, who we all thought was a roadie, a standing ovation.

It was Yes’ new keyboard player, Patrick Moraz. He was making his debut with the band.

As soon as Moraz was announced, the band broke into my favorite Yes song, “Siberian Khatru.” Everything seemed to be going my way again. Kacey even came back to life.

Everyone stayed on their feet, enjoying the music. Since Kacey was so short, she couldn’t see.

I hoisted her on my shoulders, where she stayed for three hours, treating my head like a bongo.

                                               ***

Andrea volunteered to drive back with a severely compromised Ellen as co-pilot. Ellen’s nose had now blown up to the size of a cabbage, but her altered state of mind kept her from feeling the pain. Kacey and I hunkered down in the back seat. I knew she was feeling better when she draped the blanket over my lap and proceeded to disappear underneath it.

“What are you two deviants doing now?” Andrea asked.

“We’re playing submarween,” Kacey replied. “We-wax. We’re on a date, twying to be romantic.”

Andrea frowned at me in the rear-view mirror. “Sure. That makes something I’ll never be able to unsee okay. And remind me not to sit on that blanket anymore.”

“I might want to have it bronzed,” I replied.

By the time we reached Kacey’s house, she had either fallen asleep or passed out again. Ellen was blissfully humming Yes songs to herself, unaware that her swollen nose made her look like W.C. Fields’ daughter.

“So, what do you think? Do I take Ellen home or to the emergency room?” Andrea asked.

“The ER. That beak is busted.”

 “No, I want to look at the trails,” Ellen begged.

I pulled an unconscious Kacey out of the car, lifting her into my arms.

“You know, if the nurses start asking Ellen questions, they might stick her in the psycho ward,” Andrea noted.

“Tell them she’s got a concussion.”

Andrea raised a smile. “Looks like no sex for you tonight, lover boy.”

Kacey’s eyes fluttered, popping open.

“Did someone say sex?”

                                               ***

My budding relationship with Kacey looked as if it was going to flourish. We laughed and romped our way through two mostly unclothed weeks.

Then Kacey met my mother.

It was our misfortune that my mother was gardening when Kacey drove up for our latest lunch and fun date. I saw her jaw drop when Kacey got out in a barely-there top and short shorts so tight they looked painted on.

My mother homed in on Kacey like a fun-sucking vampire. Kacey’s peaceful brown eyes grew larger with each rapid-fire question.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Kacey.”

“How do you know my son?”

“Basebrawl.”

My mother noticed Kacey’s unique speech pattern and zoomed in for the kill.

“Is something wrong with you?”

Kacey swallowed hard, “…No…”

“You’re not on dope, are you?”

“No! I’m sobah.”

“Where’s your clothes?”

“I’m warewing dem.”

“You’re what?”

“Warewing dem,” Kacey repeated.

“Then you need more clothes. Where are you two going?”

“The Weservation.”

“The what?”

“A pawk.”

“Are you from Boston?”

“No. I was bawn heyah.”

“How old are you?”

“Twendy-one.”

My mother cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Okay…Nineteen.”

The inquisition went on for another painful ten minutes with my mother playing Joe Friday and Kacey stuck in the role of the guilty criminal. When Kacey finally got behind the wheel, her first sarcastic words to me were, “That went wheely, wheely well.”

Kacey suggested we skip going to the Reservation and get take-out pizza instead. Kacey was so catatonic she didn’t feel the searing heat of the pizza and only took a few bites. When I made a move to kiss her, she treated me as if I was patient zero for the Black Plague, pushing me away.

Without a hint of her speech impediment, Kacey said solemnly, “No more touching… Not ever.”

Kacey drove me back home. I barely exited the car before she smoked the tires, waving weakly at my mother as she sped off.

“You’re not serious about that girl, are you?” my mother asked.

“Apparently not.”