The Great Adventures of Amy, Bertha (& Puppygirl)

A Story by Erin Lee

An excerpt from my memoirs, a project I'm currently working on. I first began this project as a participant - and ultimate winner - of the NANOWRIMO 2009 contest.

I close my eyes, inhaling deep. The taste of the pine tree air freshener bites at my tongue. Seventeen more days, I tell myself. Just 17 days until I’m free! I bask in her �" her scent, her beige cloth seat that hugs at my thighs. I grip the steering wheel, squeezing my eyes tighter now. Oh! The places we will go together! I chuckle, reminded of the Dr. Suess favorite from my childhood. I ask her, almost out loud. I answer myself. We will go anywhere. Bertha and I will go anywhere. My mind takes us on trips to the mall, where we’ll stay as long as we like, her waiting patiently for me as I pick out a new seat cover or cassette tape. Then, we will travel home, like comfortable lovers. We will sing loud �" windows down and trying not to crack from the sounds of us �" my squeaking lungs and her squeaky brakes.

I pet her: Half expecting her to yawn and lean into me for more, like the neighbor’s cat does after a long day of catching field mice. Seventeen more days, Bertha! We’ll be free. I’ll finally be 16! I’ll have my license: Freedom in the form of a plastic card. I want to scream it on the top of my lungs: “We’re outta here!” But I resist. There will be plenty of time for that, in seventeen more days…

I got my driver’s license on Sept. 12, 1990. For me, getting my license was huge. It meant freedom from the small town I grew up in. It was freedom from Mom’s rules and my parents’ Sunday fights. It meant going places where no one new of me, and my reputation as the town dweeb. Getting a license meant I could be anyone I wanted to be, anywhere I wanted to be it.

My first car, Bertha, was a 1987 Plymouth Reliant. She was a dusty navy and one of the ugliest old man cars I’d ever seen. My parents paid $2,000 for Bertha and I was not about to complain about her grimy tan seats and broken tape player. Bertha, in all her putrid glory, had one big thing going for her: she was all mine. I told Bertha my secrets and she kept them. I spent weeks sitting in her in my parents’ driveway the summer before I got my license. I’d fiddle with the radio and try out one air freshener after another on the rearview mirror. Eventually, a piney citrus smell took over the Old Spice aftershave scent she’d come to me with, and Bertha was all mine.

(talk about first trip to the mall with Bertha �" smoking cigarettes behind the gas station with Andrea �" amy �" and then taking Bertha to college)

Graduating from, and more importantly, leaving high school was no great loss for me. I skip-marched across the stage to accept my diploma, smiling wide. The only thing shining brighter than my smile that day was the handmade yellow bus on my mortarboard. The bus was a tribute to Amy. For years, we’d argued about where it was we’d actually met in the first grade �" on a summer school school bus or in the playground. I was convinced it was the bus. She was certain it was the playground.

Amy, my best friend since the first grade, had suffered a birth injury that left her with a half paralyzed left arm. It was because of her arm that she seemed so approachable to me when I first met her. Within days, I didn’t notice her arm and was enamored instead by her outgoing personality and wit. Amy was the only thing good about high school, as far as I was concerned, and I didn’t have to worry about leaving her behind.

Armed with an arsenal of reasons why it’d be “super” and “awesome” to go to college an hour from home together, I’d convinced the more socially adventurous Amy to agree to be my college roommate. Bound not for the big city or to see the world for the first time with our own eyes, Amy, Bertha, and I would head off to college entirely in tact. I made sure of it. I was armed with a first-hand inspected list of who was bringing the forbidden dorm room hot pot and color coordinated twin bunk comforters. There was no great mystery or adventure there �" just the way I’d ordered it. She was my very own human security blanket, disguised as a 17-year-old college co ed, with a waist smaller than mine, tits bigger than mine, and confidence that could fill an empty atrium. Her ruby lips never grew tired of talking and her sharp mind always knew just what to say. Yes, I was going to be just fine with Amy along for the ride.

See you pricks later! I blew a kiss to my graduating class of 248 and told myself I’d “show them” come my ten-year reunion where I’d emerge as a famous journalist. By then, I’d have seen the world and written not one, but three books about my adventures as a foreign correspondent. I’d have ridden in Air Force bomber jets alongside my Tom Cruise fighter pilot fiancé who adored me, and only me. Who’d have to know that I’d likely need to pack trusty dusty Amy in my suitcase to help me out of sticky situations along the way?

It wasn’t more than a few hours into our first day at college that my romantic notions of following my best childhood friend to college fell flat. I’m not talking about the kind of flat you can pump right back up. I’m talking about the kind of life halt that makes you choke on usually fresh air �" like smog from a faulty exhaust.

Our mothers, eager to participate in the freshmen welcoming activities set up for Orientation Weekend, were heading to a Class of 1996 welcoming reception in the school gymnasium. Somehow, the ever-clever Amy convinced them that we needed to do a few things before meeting back up with them. Amy encouraged them to go ahead of us, and assured our moms we’d be right along. Puzzled, but well-versed in the oh-so-slick ways of my hero-friend, I went along with this. Mom and Mrs. D were off to the reception alone before I had a chance to look back at them. They’d barely rounded the corner of the grassy quad before Amy pulled at my arm �" hard.

“Come on! We don’t have much time, dude! Are you really going to wear that?” She pulled me behind our dorm, Fiske Hall, and frantically searched through her oversized Benneton bag for something.

“Hugh? What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” I looked down at my Planet Earth tee shirt and black jeans. My feet topped off what I considered a perfectly invisible, perfectly please-don’t-stare-at-me-isn’t-it-obvious-I’m-petrified? outfit matched only by my lucky pair of Keds.

Amy was already moving quickly along the edge of the dorm, eyes set on something across the street.

“Dude! Wait! Where are we going? What are you...”

“Ah-ha! Here!” She stopped, finally, and stripped out of her acid washed jeans. She threw them in the bag, revealing Daisy Duke hot shorts in a startling crisp white. These were the kind of shorts I’d imagined seeing in a go-go bar, topped off with shiny pleather knee high boots. These were the kind of shorts no girl over the age of 12 would consider wearing for fear that her period may come and announce its presence just a little too loudly. I’d never seen these shorts before and I was quite sure I had a full inventory on all of Amy’s clothes. Hadn’t we just done a full wardrobe inventory before bed last night? No, I was quite sure I’d never seen these before. I’d have remembered the way they split her a*s cheeks and cupped them awkwardly �" like two overflowing cupcakes someone’s mother would donate to a school fundraiser. My jaw hung as she twirled around behind the dorm, throwing cherry lipstick my way. The lipstick landed on the sidewalk.

I looked around, sure we must have an audience, before reaching to pick it up off the walkway. We did, indeed, have an audience. Looking up, across the street, to where Amy had been focused, I noticed at least a half dozen older boys �" juniors, maybe? �" on the roof of a slummy building. The boys were sitting on a row of ratty couches, sporting Budweiser cans, and apparently “people watching.” To say Amy-watching would probably be more appropriate here.

“There!” she said, grinning, and pretending to be oblivious to the scene she was stirring, “We’re all set! Let’s go!”

Amy looked up at the boys, but only after Indian-grabbing the lipstick from my palm and applying what must have been a fourth or fifth coat to her well-oiled lips. I froze. Vomit, acid, the 2 percent milk I’d had with my Life cereal that morning, whatever was in my stomach, seemed to want to make a reappearance. And it wanted to do it all over the walkway. Why not, I reasoned, It’s not like a major puking incident would ruin the lipstick job I’d apparently forgotten to get to �" or wasn’t fast enough to get to.

Amy was already stepping into a crosswalk, moving like a Cheshire cat on speed to the rotting old green Victorian capped with drunken fraternity boys. To say she was moving fast is an understatement. No, her and her s**t shorts were most definitely doing a speed-walk, enunciated by the tit-buns that matched her cupcakes as she moved belly dancer style toward the boys. I had no choice but to vomit or follow. I did as I always did. Like the homeless puppy dog I often felt like, I obediently raced to catch up to my crazy owner. So much for dragging her along for the ride!

“Cool!” I offered, a little too convincingly. “Do you know them?”

Amy’s older brother, Paul, whom I’d had a not-so-secret crush on for years, was already a Sophomore at Keene State College. I reasoned, quite lamely, with myself, that this could just be an innocent, “let’s stop in and say hi to Paul” visit. I soon discovered that it was a “let’s see Paul” visit. But that was only the cover story. No different than the “we just have a few things to do real quick” excuse she’d told our moms, Amy’s “let’s go see Paul” idea was more of a teaser on the cover of a tabloid; complete with a promise of something juicier inside. And I didn’t have to wait long to get to the guts of the story behind my newly discovered centerfold of a best friend as I followed her through the open front door of the house with dingy Greek letters on it.

The first thing I noticed was the strong scent of piss and beer that permeated the walls and flooring of the building. I’d have bet those walls hadn’t been painted since it was built in 1909. The white paint, now a grayish-black, was covered in a layer of fuzz. This was the kind of dust a dreamy teenager could spend hours finger-writing her name and the name of the boy she loved in. She’s draw hearts and “I love Jimmy 4 eva!” in this dust. Or maybe it would be more like “God help me to ever trust this whole Best Friends Forever concept again!” Maybe a wiser, college graduate, would write in it something along the lines of “you never know a person until college orientation day!” All I knew was I had a very strong urge to write “Help!” in it as we climbed the creaky stairs to the second floor of the fraternity house. I knew we were getting closer, with each rickety step, to the brooding pack of boy wolves on the roof. F**k!

They say it takes the average college freshmen about a year to gain 15 pounds and a month to get homesick. Ever the over achiever, I’d already reached homesick before ever spending a night in my dormitory. But I was quite sure my XL giraffe-like frame would soon be down to a not-so-whopping 130 pounds. Homesick? That, I could understand. But gaining weight here, in a crack house lit with potential social situations that would set fear into any God-fearing recluse? I think not! Who was this brazen w***e I was following? When had she captured my best friend? And was it me who was supposed to rescue her?

If I thought things were bad on our mutual assent, I had no idea what true mortification was until about 20 minutes later on my solo decent down these same stairs. We’d been in the room of overanxious 20-somethings less than a minute before the room owner introduced himself as “Spunk.” Spunk and his frat boy friends had us surrounded like pigeons on a beach jonesing for an abandoned French fry or sandwich crust before asking our names. I about spit out my wintergreen gum when I heard Amy’s response. With a Hollywood red carpet flip of her longish fringe locks, she flamboyantly announced, “Helllll-ooooooo. I’m Aiiiiiiimmmmmm-ee-l-i-a-hhhhhhhhhhhhhh-a!” (Amelia? What the f**k!!!!!?) The thick French accent my purely Irish friend used to enunciate her name was like something stolen from a bad, very bad, foreign B movie. I was half shocked that she hadn’t found a way to attach subtitles to her tits, pushing out from behind the skimpy tank top she had chosen for the day. The pitch and thickness with which she’d used to announce herself screamed “I’m the queen of England, look at my gorgeous sex appeal and feminine features! I will f**k for fun!” Her voice was so unnatural that I was sure I could see Spunk wince for her. But Amy, clearly having practiced her royal introduction at least 200 times in the mirror without my knowledge, did not notice the chuckles coming from the older guys in the back of the room. I could practically hear them taking numbers. I hung my head. I hoped they wouldn’t notice me.

Since when did we bring painted on white cut offs and thick Parisian accents to Keene State College? Had she packed these things like stowaway side piece trinkets saved for a sunny-oh, it’s too warm in here �" day? Or was it merely an outfit for the next Frat Boys Gone Wild Freshman Gang Bang movie I hadn’t been aware we were about to partake in producing? Help! Get me the f**k out of here!

We were unexpectedly saved by Paul, who’d arrived with one Budweiser in each hand. His cheeks were the color of cranberries. I’m not sure if it was from the early afternoon buzz or the pure mortification that now colored my own scarlet cheeks.

“Yah, ummm, she’s my sister. And that’s her friend,” he said, pointing to me.

“Hi Sis and friend,” an obviously older student named Travis, who Amy would eventually f**k and do lines of cocaine with, snorted. He was a shark on live bait. Swirling, he’d already assessed this French wannabe as a sure screw and the friend as an inconvenient carryon. He’d assessed correctly. I took the beer Paul offered, sipping at it while taking a mental inventory of the exact number of pieces of Wintergreen gum left in the back pocket of my jeans �" three. Maybe Mom and Mrs. D won’t be able to smell the beer on my breath when we get back.

“Hi! I’m Erin,” I said to Travis, extending my hand. A few of the brothers let out grunts. I kept my eyes on the beer-stained carpet, sinking against the poster-wallpapered sheetrock.

“Well, hello, Erin,” the token fat guy offered from the back corner of the room. Thankful for his acknowledgement, but hyper aware that silent ownership tags were already being placed on us, I sighed gratefully. At least he’s tall. Yes, he’s a cross between Belushi on Animal house and a hairy gorilla. But he’s tall. All prehistoric Apes are tall. Tall was, after all, a giraffe girl’s number one requirement in a potential boyfriend. Jesus! Was I even seriously considering this?

Amy had already downed her first beer and was more than happy to relieve me of mine before I was ale to make my exit excuse. I didn’t have to think very hard. The vultures were already hanging on Frenchie’s every word and the silent promises she offered of �" the very least �" a hand job.

“Nice to meet you guys, we sorta have to go. We just came by for a sec to see Paul,” I fumbled. Paul looked up at me hopefully. I don’t think a single other set of ears in the room had heard me.

I tried nudging her.

“Ames?”

She shot me a look of “are you f*****g serious, home girl? I’m here to stay!” I knew better than to argue with this. I shrugged, quickly making my way out of there, but not before nearly poking my eye out with the antler of a stuffed buck at the base of the stairs. Why hadn’t I noticed this before? The buck stared at me, boasting his offering of about 40 pairs of women’s panties and bras. The lingerie came in a cheerful rainbow of sizes, fabrics and styles. Apparently, my best friend was not the first freshman transplant around this joint. I literally ran out the door, nodding a goodbye to Buck and never so thankful for the fresh air. I was oblivious to the guys laughing on the roof as I ran across the street and back toward campus.

Looking back, I’m not sure why I ever expected college with Amy to be anything but a seven-year drunken stupor, leading to an eventual drama or pottery degree. But I decided, at that moment, to accept my fate for what it was. And I did. I had to. She was, after all, all I had. Correction: I had her and the explanation I’d now have to come up with about the missing French coed, Ameeee-li-ahhhhhhh, formerly known as Amy, for the moms.