Bobs, Part 3a

When I think of Bob Small I think of my lavender dress with the wide belt at the waist. He liked it, so did I, so did other people. Good color for me, and so on and so forth.

We met at a Saturday night dance at church. I was 13. I know, I know. But times were different then.

The night Bob came to the dance was the first time I had ever seen him, but I knew right off he was not the church dance type. The smell of cigarette smoke said so, too.

But there he was, and it was like he came looking for someone. He said he came looking for me. But I couldn't be sure of that. I'm never sure of things like that.

The fact is he headed straight for me, and throughout the whole dance he acted like I was the one person he had been looking for for a long time. Other boys asked me to dance, but when they would walk me back to the side of the hall, Bob would come over to where I was. If I went into the restroom, which is where I heard other girls talking about him, when I came out he would be waiting for me.

Bob Small was older, 18 or 19. He combed his blond hair straight back into a duck tail, turned the collar of his shirt up, and wore khaki pants, pegged. These things made a statement, and I could see a certain knowledge in his pale blue eyes. The talk about him said he was experienced, which always meant with girls, and he had been in jail.

Dangerous.

After that dance, Bob would meet me after school every day. Or, if he couldn't meet me, his friend would meet me and tell me Bob would be there tomorrow or whenever it might be. I took this behavior to be a sure sign of experience, to let the girl know. Other boys might show up or might not and never say a word about.

Normally a boy Bob's age would have a car, but it was apparently part of his probation that he could not drive. No car. That was good, safe. It meant we walked to my house, a couple of miles from school. On those long slow walks we talked, got acquainted. When we reached my house we would lean again the retaining wall near the garage and talk more.

What I learned about Bob during those times was, jail or not, he was nice, he was gentle. He did not seem criminal in any way, though I hardly know what I expected.

Bob was always polite to me and interested in what I had to say. That was clearly different. Other boys, those my age, might be polite or they might ignore you, and you never knew which to expect. Other boys liked you to listen to them. I got to be very good at that.

But Bob would ask me about myself and listen and respond and chuckle when I spoke. How could I not like him?