Gaylord

When I was a teenager
there was an older boy who
lived at the corner and worked on his car
a 1956, blue and white Chevy.

The chrome sparkled in the sunlight
his face reflected off every surface
his chest bare with skin that glistened
all the girls secretly adored him.

Francisca learned his name was Gaylord
all muscled and stripped down to his waist
buffing and rubbing that car
each afternoon when we walked by.

Vera was the bravest but with the darkest skin
hesitated to say anything to him.
Francisca, a buxom blond, said her freckles
and glasses made her too shy to make the first move.

They dared me, and not being one to back down,
went over to say hi. We talked about his car
he smiled and with a soft cloth
rubbed a smudge off the left fender.

He asked if I would like to go for a ride.
I couldn't date yet but I made
arrangements to meet at his house
then to the beach along Pacific Coast Highway.

When I slid into his car he reached across
the seat. I thought he was making his move
but he carefully wiped my fingerprints
off the chrome door handle.

The trip seemed long 'cause all he talked
about was his customized Chevy.
We walked hand in hand down the pier
he admired himself on every mirror

then put his arm around my waist, drew me close
to kiss me on the lips but his mouth
smelled like wet rags and car wax.
I pulled away and asked to go home.

We didn’t speak another word
When I got out he said, “Don’t slam the door.”
He was drafted shortly after graduation
and I never saw Gaylord again.