{"id":2627,"date":"2014-12-12T08:09:44","date_gmt":"2014-12-12T15:09:44","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/annleemiller.com\/?p=2627"},"modified":"2014-12-13T08:17:32","modified_gmt":"2014-12-13T15:17:32","slug":"much-enough-testosterone-christmas-parade","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/annleemiller.com\/2014\/12\/much-enough-testosterone-christmas-parade\/","title":{"rendered":"Too Much & Not EnoughTestosterone for the Christmas Parade"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\u00a9<\/a>

\u00a9 Ben Goode | Dreamstime Stock Photos<\/p><\/div>\n

Photo by Maria Carrasco<\/p>\n

The smallest bridge in New Smyrna Beach, rising less than six feet from Washington Street, might as well have been the Sunshine Skyway over Tampa Bay.<\/p>\n

My shoulders bunched with tension and my knuckles whitened on the stick shift as I eyed the first \u201chill\u201d in my two-day manual transmission driving stint.<\/p>\n

I glanced at my ten-year-old brother as if he\u2019d suddenly sprouted enough testosterone to become a gear-shifting Yoda. But R.J. sat on his knees, oblivious to the impending crisis, tossing fistfuls of candy out the window to the New Smyrna Beach Christmas Parade watchers.<\/p>\n

Thus far I\u2019d made jerky progress down Canal Street in the Simca Mom bought brand new after the divorce. The basketball orange car had spent most of its life in the shop waiting for parts from France and stunting my driver education.<\/p>\n

The refrigerator box tied to the roof rustled in the wind. I\u2019d covered it in wrapping paper to look like a book, emblazoned with construction paper Behrens\u2019 Book Store<\/em> letters to advertise my stepfather\u2019s store. Tinsel streamers fluttered at the corners.<\/p>\n

I chewed on my bottom lip.<\/p>\n

Would the twine hold the box in place when I started uphill?<\/p>\n

I squinted at the New Smyrna Beach High School barracuda mascot in the rear view mirror\u2014a red Chinese New Year-like fish propelled by a dozen pairs of tennis-shoed feet. I hoped the feet belonged to the Cuzudas\u2014the all-girl pep club\u2014and not the delicious boys in the Key Club.<\/p>\n

In what universe had it been a good idea to let Ralph talk me into this? I should have had a clue after he convinced me to dance in a Vaudeville review<\/a>.<\/p>\n

I bit down harder on my lip.<\/p>\n

A Rotten egg smell of barnacles wafted from the low tide-exposed foundation of the bridge.<\/p>\n

The Belgian horses ahead did a two-step, impatient with the slow parade pace.<\/p>\n

I putted along in first gear toward the intersection and scanned the faces of the boys perched on the cement bridge railing\u2014Jimmy Lane, Gil Chisholm, and Terry Pressley, three of the hottest boys at New Smyrna Beach High School.<\/p>\n

Just shoot me now.<\/p>\n

Too bad I couldn\u2019t jump off the bridge<\/a> like I had in Jupiter a couple years ago.<\/p>\n

\"<\/a>

1970 Simca 1000, photo by CurbsideClassic.com<\/p><\/div>\n

We rolled under the stoplight and I gunned the engine, mashed the clutch to the floor, and shifted into second.<\/p>\n

The car lurched forward and started up the incline.<\/p>\n

The Belgian closest to my bumper halted.<\/p>\n

I jammed down the clutch and brake.<\/p>\n

Crap!<\/p>\n

As if he\u2019d heard me, the horse dropped a prodigious road apple on the pavement, sashayed another few feet and deposited a second.<\/p>\n

I rested my elbow on the window frame, trying to pull off \u201ccool\u201d for the guys\u2019 benefit.<\/p>\n

R.J. looked at me. \u201cThe horses moved. Aren\u2019t you going to pull up?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not moving until the horses get over the bridge,\u201d I said through clenched teeth.<\/p>\n

Acid poured into my stomach.<\/p>\n

I could feel Jimmy, Gil and Terry staring holes me\u2014the new girl who gimped around on crutches the first month of school. There was no chance they didn\u2019t recognize me.<\/p>\n

I hit the gas. Popped the clutch.<\/p>\n

Bad idea.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d forgotten to shift into first and the car died.<\/p>\n

I worked through my checklist\u2014clutch, first gear, key\u2014keeping my eyes on the Belgian rumps and off the boys as if that would minimize my humiliation.<\/p>\n

I released the brake to hit the gas and the car rolled backward.<\/p>\n

In the rearview mirror, the barracuda scrambled backwards to avoid getting run over.<\/p>\n

I panicked and hit the brake.<\/p>\n

The car stalled and the fish feet dominoed down till the whole barracuda lay on its side in a wreckage of crepe paper.<\/p>\n

\"Me,<\/a>

Me, 17, & R.J., 10, 1974<\/p><\/div>\n

I wrenched the key in the ignition, gunned the engine, and flew over the bridge.<\/p>\n

After the parade, stick-shifting kicked in thirty minutes too late and I returned over the bridge like a pro.<\/p>\n

I pulled into the lot behind Behrens\u2019 Book Store and rousted Ralph to help dismantle our \u201cfloat.\u201d<\/p>\n

R.J. took off on his skateboard, a bag of leftover candy in his fist.<\/p>\n

While Ralph extracted a dull pocket knife from his Mary Poppins\u2019 shirt pocket and sawed the ropes loose, I launched into a litany of my stall-outs\u2014minus the hot boy debacle.<\/p>\n

Ralph looked down at me as he wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. \u201cI could never have fixed up that box like a book.\u201d He didn\u2019t use his surly \u201cfamily\u201d voice. He didn\u2019t use his syrupy bookstore voice. Though bass rattled in all his voices, this one was the real one.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re welcome.\u201d<\/p>\n

He smiled. \u201cAnd thanks for driving.\u201d<\/p>\n

We both knew he had to mind the store and Mom had to sleep off her night shift at the hospital.<\/p>\n

He waved, and turned away toward the paint peeling off the cement block wall of the store.<\/p>\n

I watched his six-eight, 270-pound frame schlep the oversized box through the back doorway and disappear. He was keeping my creation for another parade!<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t see the real Ralph often. Mom had married him four years ago, and this was the first time I realized he was a decent guy under all the bluster. His booming voice made the neighbors think we had more drama going on at our house than we did.<\/p>\n

Snapshots sifted into my mind. Ralph packing a picnic into the cooler for a family outing to Blue Springs. How he gazed at Mom like he\u2019d won the marital lottery. Ralph\u2014whether intentionally or not\u2014let the balance of power in the family tip my way. I could happily do whatever I wanted, something that never would have gone down on Dad\u2019s watch.<\/p>\n

I buzzed the few blocks up Canal Street to Jackie Herold\u2019s, collapsed across her bed, and dished the play by play of the parade.<\/p>\n

Jackie gripped her stomach and laughed till tears seeped out the corners of her eyes.<\/p>\n

I knew every one of my girlfriends would get a good guffaw at my expense. If Eric Bensen and Leroy Henry caught wind of my escapade, they\u2019d rib me till graduation. But nobody would unfriend me over lousy driving.<\/p>\n

I never did screw up the guts to talk to Jimmy, Gil, or Terry.<\/p>\n

Diane Schneider\u2014who was the first of the barracuda feet to fall over\u2014had no idea I was driving the car ahead of the Pep Club.<\/p>\n

\"stormyafternoon<\/a>

stormyafternoon<\/a> via Compfight<\/a> cc<\/a><\/p><\/div>\n

The Key Club remained an untapped vat of testosterone.<\/p>\n

I dug two butterscotch candies in gold paper out of my pocket and handed Jackie one.<\/p>\n

As the sweetness dissolved on my tongue I glanced around Jackie\u2019s room at the Raggedy Ann dolls, towels, cups, even sheets on her bed\u2014stuff she\u2019d been collecting since she was a little girl. And now she had a real-life Raggedy Ann for a best friend\u2014complete with strawberry-blonde hair and freckles.<\/p>\n

And I had her.<\/p>\n

Even my worst day in New Smyrna Beach beat out every other day in my life.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

If you\u2019d like to leave a comment below, share a funny Christmas story.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Related posts about New Smyrna Beach:<\/p>\n

Friendless on the First Day of School<\/a><\/p>\n

Beached, Brokendown, and Blessed in New Smyrna<\/a><\/p>\n

Spoons, Nudes, and Tuna Casserole<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

To get my blogs in your e-mail, just type your address in the empty box on the right and click the \u201cSubscribe\u201d button beneath the box.<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

\n

 <\/p>\n

Check out my New Smyrna Beach novels by clicking on the covers.<\/p>\n

\"Avra's<\/a>\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \"Tattered<\/a>\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \"Kicking<\/a> \u00a0\u00a0 \"The<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Photo by Maria Carrasco The smallest bridge in New Smyrna Beach, rising less than six feet from Washington Street, might as well have been the Sunshine Skyway over Tampa Bay. My shoulders bunched with tension and my knuckles whitened on the stick shift as I eyed the first \u201chill\u201d in my two-day manual transmission driving […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":2638,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_exactmetrics_skip_tracking":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_active":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_note":"","_exactmetrics_sitenote_category":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","enabled":false}}},"categories":[2,66],"tags":[174,178,182,185,179,180,184,172,186,181,183],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\nToo Much & Not EnoughTestosterone for the Christmas Parade - Ann Lee Miller<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/annleemiller.com\/2014\/12\/much-enough-testosterone-christmas-parade\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Too Much & Not EnoughTestosterone for the Christmas Parade - Ann Lee Miller\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Photo by Maria Carrasco The smallest bridge in New Smyrna Beach, rising less than six feet from Washington Street, might as well have been the Sunshine Skyway over Tampa Bay. 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