The Homecoming Queen (with: two Bozos and a car)
By Carter C. Crabtree
“We’re all bozos on this bus.” Said the fine citizens of the Firesign Theatre, a long time ago. Much of humanity retains bozo qualities to this very day, maybe even more so than before.
In this case, it wasn’t any kind of bus. It was a late 1960s Corvette Stingray, totally ‘tricked out’ at the factory. A real machine for real men. And, we were, in fact, not quite grown men, but potential bozos.
There were three of us in the Magic Vette that Southern Autumn afternoon in the realm of 1970. Our main responsibility, as we saw it, did not include the word ‘bozo’. We just didn’t know that it actually did.
Still, it is a true story about a beautiful queen, my best friend, me, and that magnificent Sting Ray.
We were the Queen’s escorts, in a small-town homecoming parade.
It was: THE High School Homecoming Parade. Yes. That’s who SHE was.
This could be Any City, USA. This one occurred in Florida. No real surprise there. The following realizations came to light on ‘Main Street’, which fronted the incredible St. John’s River.
That’s the setting. Norman Rockwell stuff. No violence on this trip.
I should probably add this: My friend and me are very thankful our Homecoming Queen didn’t fly right off the fucking end of that 1968, jazzed-up Stingray, while we chauffeured her in that most hallowed of hometown events.
Turns out, my friend thought the Corvette’s clutch was tad stiff (it was a race car clutch). This could mean danger for someone sitting on, or near the trunk area while waving at lots of adoring fans. In this case, that would be the Homecoming Queen.
Some talking points with explanations:
About that Corvette: It really was totally tricked out at the GM factory in Detroit. I won’t go into the sordid man-details, like engine displacement, carburetors, etc. It was a true, classic beauty. And yes, it was bright red with some well thought-out white design features, including down-side-swept chrome exhaust pipes that provided that mighty fine finishing touch.
Let’s just go ahead and call the Vette an equal opportunity dude/chick magnet. It was, for all practical purposes, a snazzy, but cheaper, U.S. version of The British Royal Carriage.
Don’t forget about that ‘stiff clutch’ thing.
The Homecoming Queen: I won’t reveal her name. But you should know, she was a real sport about most stupid-guy things. She was dressed in that special get-up only beauty queens can wear.
The Homecoming Queen wore white gloves. Did I mention she was drop-dead beautiful? Well, she was. Then, there’s that hand-wave thing. To the best of my recollection, she did not employ the cupped-palm, twisty-wristy move. She was better than that. She looked astonishing. And, that tierra. Whoa mamma!
The three of us shared what we knew to be a Jamaican spleef before heading to the parade staging area. The sight of that gorgeous Queen puffing on a joint with her tierra and white gloves, was for me, a moment to remember.
As we finished, the three of us agreed, it was pretty good weed.
With those basic facts, here’s how it went.
The parade ‘staging area’. What can I say? You get in line, sit there, and wait. In our case, a tad stoned, with top 40 music on the AM radio.
Finally, the wheels began to turn. We were heading to Main Street. Eventually it was our turn. The Queen lifted herself to the back of the Vette which served as an impromptu royal throne. When you’re transporting the Homecoming Queen, it’s a very, very big deal.
Then, there we were, on Main Street itself, heading away from the river. What a magical small town it was. Everything you can imagine. Profitable Mom & Pop shops adorned both sides of the street. I’d visited all of them. The crowd size was solid. Everybody screamed their sincere approval and waved like crazy at The Homecoming Queen.
She waved back. Just not that twisty-wristy thing.
The driver, my friend, Alex, seemed to have that magnificent power machine well under control. Me, I was sitting in the passenger seat with a plastered-on, shit-eating grin. ‘Wow, man. This is really cool.’ That kind of silly youth blather.
To the casual observer, it all looked terrific and perfectly normal. It seemed like something something circus-clownish. But nobody noticed. The Bozo Boys’ reputations were very much on the firing line. With a truly beautiful young lady sitting on the trunk of what could be a badly-executed moment.
In the Vette, it seems Alex and me were feeling very different, but in two key ways. I was smiling and waving back, too. But no one noticed me, which was fine. For Alex, it wasn’t so cool. He had this weird look on his face.
And the Queen? Well, she was having a total blast. Girls just want to have fun, right? What could possibly be funner? There was a fair chance that at least several gal-pal onlookers wished it to be them.
On we drove. I was 18.
For me, that short drive opened a whole new chapter in my life. It led to a complete, deep, lifelong love of still photography.
For the first time, I saw everything in a different way. I saw the hometown storefronts, the pets, the trees, the trash in the gutters. I saw odd shapes and angles in ways I had not thought of. I saw things in ‘a different light’.
I paid actual attention for an extended period, but in a different way. And so on.
The trip ended where the neighborhoods began: at the railroad. We turned left off Main Street, checked with the ‘officials’ and left.
We took the Queen back home and then proceeded to give the Vette a little health check-up. Naming that machine ‘Arnold Schwarzenegger’ would be appropriate. But Arnie wasn’t around at the time. What a totally male piece of sheer metal, that thing.
Alex then dropped me off at the small radio station where I worked as an announcer/DJ. Some people seemed to think I had a vague on-air talent that might be useful, to them.
Back to the Vette: I did not learn until years later that Alex was scared shitless during the entire parade because of that goddam tight clutch. He drove in general fear, which explained that funny look on his face.
It actually represented total fear and complete concentration.
For him, there was this genuine and sudden knowledge that a tight clutch can be problematic when hauling your Hometown Royal Highness. It was more than within the realm of possibility that Alex might lose enough control of the Sting Ray to the point where the Queen would become airborne backwards.
The primary landing zone would have been a patch of Main Street asphalt. Probably with a full face-plant included.
Nooooo!!!! Can you imagine? The horror. The horror.
Just the thought still runs a creepy feeling through my core being. What if it had really happened? Oh. My. God. In this case, a very serious OMG. Everyone you knew at the time, would never, ever forget. Might’ve even made the news. That is no way to achieve positive local lore status.
Bottom line. Our questionable reputations remained somewhat intact and semi-preserved afterward. Think, just a bit closer to becoming a jarred pickle.
My memory is solid, like that clutch in the Stingray.
If you were expecting a backward-flying Homecoming Queen, well, sorry for the anti-climax.
After he dropped me off at the radio station, Alex popped that tight clutch on the Vette. The engine roared, the rear wheels spun. Thick, rubber smoke from those fat Goodyear tires filled the air and fueled our male hormones to a great degree.
Then, Alex stopped for a moment to regain traction and then, took off. Really fast. No beauty queen could ever survive that.
Today, I know why Alex wore no smile as we drove that small-town Magic Mile. In his place, I would’ve felt the exact same way. Maybe worse while trying to avoid being a bozo with my left foot on that mighty tight clutch.
From the great Jim Morrison, “Keep your eyes on the road and your hands upon the wheel. Roll, baby, roll.”
First published December 8, 2024 by Carter C. Crabtree