My mother called them “lost puppies” because the first one I brought home was actually a lost puppy. But thereafter they were all girls, my age, lost, in Mom’s opinion, because their home lives and life experiences were so completely foreign to her. Over the years, and among them, were the girl being raised by an older sister because her parents were deceased, the pregnant girl who was about to be sent to a home for unwed mothers, and the girl whose mother had locked her out of the house because the mom’s boyfriend seemed too attracted to the daughter. And then there was Leslie, a girl I met at the beginning of my junior year at Stetson University.
Leslie was self-medicating what was probably a bipolar disorder. When she was manic, she was very entertaining. She’d blast her stereo to a decibel level capable of waking the dead. She’d cook liver and onions in the hall and yell out the windows into the quad to “come and get your liver and onions!” She’d laugh at her own silliness, and dance around the dorm. I admired her for her devil-may-care attitude and gloriously uninhibited personality.
One Tuesday night, she talked me into driving into Daytona Beach with her for ladies night at one of the bars on the strip. She drove her beat-up stick shift car with me in the passenger seat. Her hair was Stevie Nicks crazy but she otherwise looked a lot like Natalie Wood. The parking lot at the bar was packed and Leslie had to park around back tucked dangerously close between two pick-up trucks. Inside, the bar was packed to the rafters with college age kids and cigarette smoke. Pre-recorded music blared with a frenzied disco beat. I was immediately uncomfortable but, with Leslie, whose very presence spelled P.A.R.T.Y., it was hard to resist her promise of fun. I yelled my way through the evening talking with various guys and a few fellow students and ended up losing track of her. When they announced Last Call, I headed to the ladies room so I’d be ready to go when they closed at 2:00 AM. I had classes the next day but not until 10:00 so I quickly calculated that we’d be home by 2:30, I’d set my alarm for 9:30, crash until then, and then rush off to class after a quick bite to eat.
The parking lot emptied out pretty fast once the bar closed. I waited on the front stoop near the exit for Leslie but, time passed, cars disappeared, and it seemed as if everyone had exited. I got worried. I went around back to check for the car but, to my horror, it was gone. Here I was in the parking lot of a Daytona Beach dive with no ride back to school and, I hate to admit it, but I think I only had $1 in my wallet. This was 1978 so, no cell phone, no credit or debit card—a bad spot to be in.
I went back around to the front thinking it might be safer to at least be near the lights of the strip and tried to think up a plan. I was near tears as I wrestled with the idea of walking down the strip to the police station and explaining my plight. I thought about trying to find a taxi, hoping the driver would be sympathetic and allow me to run up to my dorm room to get the balance of the cab fare for him. I was pretty scared. Just then, a strange car drove into the parking lot. The driver, a guy I had never seen before, rolled down the passenger window and inquired, “Are you Debbie?” I nodded. He continued, “Hop in. Your friend Leslie is back at our house with my twin brother.” To this day, when I think about getting in that car, I cringe.
Leslie not only was drunk but she and the twin brother had taken some quaaludes. She was in no shape to drive home and I didn’t know how to drive a manual transmission. I figured we’d just sleep here for awhile and by 8:00 she’d be fine to drive back to the dorm, and I still could get to class on time. Around 8:30, I woke up and tried to rouse her but she was still pretty messed up and barely capable of walking. The other twin brother and I managed to get her in the passenger side of her car. Recalling the one other time I’d shifted gears (with my high school boyfriend in his 280-Z), the twin gave me a quick talk on how to shift this car and off we went. I’m pretty sure I never got that car out of second gear, making for a noisy ride back to campus, but I did make it to class.
As for Leslie, I got her up to her room where she slept for the rest of the day. She woke later in the early evening in a depression. She stayed in her bed the whole next day, her head covered up with her sheet. She moaned a bit when I checked on her, but she wouldn’t eat much. She got up the following day to go to classes but was basically just going through the motions. I’m pretty sure she flunked out because she transferred for our senior year.
I still think about Leslie, one of my lost puppies, from time-to-time, and hope she is well. I’m just grateful I didn’t become a lost puppy myself that night on the strip in Daytona Beach.
Copyright DJ Anderson, 2016
