“De molen gaat niet om met wind die voorbij is”
The windmill doesn’t care for the wind that’s gone past
Hospers, Iowa—Tuesday June 15, 1965
The boy sat in the park and looked over at the “greasy spoon”. He was fifteen and still a boy in so many ways. However, he was completely consumed by the young girl who waited tables in the café and that made him sexually older then his fifteen years.
He was waiting for her to get off work. Stalking her really. He used to wait for her on a stool by the counter but the owner told him that his presence was hurting his business. So he found a place in the town square park. Of course, there was no “town square” at all. It was a Memorial Park in the middle of the block on the Northeast side of Main Street.
A local artist had developed a process of making statues commemorating World War I with some secret mixture of locally obtained resources. No one knew how he did it. The white statues looked like sandstone but wore like granite. They had stood since the end of the second war and looked as good as the day they were dedicated. At least that’s what the boy had heard people say. He thought the word “dedicated” was a misnomer. He liked to think they were erected. Not unlike himself when thinking of the girl.
Sometime after the artist finished the project, he blew his head completely off with a shotgun. Thus insuring that his secret mixture remained a secret.
The boy didn’t think much about it. He sat in the band shell with his back against the round wall. Far enough away not to be noticed but close enough to keep the café in visual range insuring a view without appearing too desperate.
The average fifteen year-old thinks about sex every seventeen seconds. The boy thought that it might be closer to every ten seconds. The girl had that effect on the boy. She was the same age but only in years. She could bring him to his knees with the twinkle in her eyes. There was something in those green eyes that saw everything and wanted to try everything. At least that’s what the boy hoped.
The girl was pushing five foot six and slender. She had short curly blonde hair, big eyes, a button nose, and a huge smile that she most always wore. She had all the right curves and her breasts were bigger than they should have been for a fifteen year-old girl. Stacked was what the guys said. Her breasts drove the boy quite crazy. She seemed to open a button or two on her shirt whenever the boy was around.
“Prick teaser” some of the other guys called her. The boy didn’t listen. She was a stone fox and he was only thinking with his small head and that was every ten seconds.
The owner came out the front door and got into his brown 1949 Dodge Meadowbrook. The boy loved cars and knew every make and model and almost every year. He made it a goal to know the most important town people’s cars and anyone who owned a muscle car of course.
It was very important to know when the café owner’s car left for the evening. That was his cue to enter the café without getting himself or the girl in trouble.
The girl was Sara Jane De Graff. The boy always thought Sara Jane to be an odd name. Either Sara or Jane would have been enough but her parents felt the need to say both names. So everyone called her Sara Jane. He thought of the old Dean Martin show when he introduced the busty Ann Margret: “Here is the actress with two first names. One for each of ‘em.” Was it ten seconds already?
The boy crossed the street and went into the café. The door hadn’t even closed when he noticed the stink of natural gas. Sara Jane was somewhere in the back. He called her name and she came out quickly and out of breath. She told him he shouldn’t have come in because the owner might be coming back at any time. He tried to tell her something was wrong, that there was an awful smell of gas. She knew, she wasn’t stupid and someone was downstairs trying to fix it.
Sara Jane told him to leave because she had to go right home after she locked up and something about her parents grounding her. The boy barely heard a single word. He was feeling mighty strange. Something was wrong. Sara Jane didn’t treat him like that, not ever.
He wondered back to his usual spot and decided to wait. Lately he was having some feelings that maybe she was hooking up with someone else. He couldn’t actually put his finger on when that thought crept into his mind but there had been little signs. The boy thought that maybe it could be someone at her school. She went to a private school and he attended the public, both in different towns. Stolen kisses had been more like pecks, not the open mouth passionate embraces he had grown accustomed to. It had been some time since he had gone home to bed with “blue balls”.
Maybe she was meeting someone tonight. If so, he would be staying until he found out. These thoughts made him agitated. He didn’t like being distrustful. It made him feel cheap. But the idea of spying on the girl made him excited as well. Intrigue had always been part of the boy’s dream world, but it was hard to live out those dreams in a small town when you are only fifteen.
The boy glanced over at the café and saw Sara Jane pulling the blinds and watching them fall. Time to lock up. The boy got up and decided to go through the alley across the street that divided the block in two. From there he could go around the back and watch Sara Jane pull the back door closed. The owner didn’t trust anyone with a key.
The boy moved quickly. He didn’t want to miss Sara Jane and he was almost to the street when things changed. Slow motion, that’s what it was. Everything had gone into slow motion. At that very moment, life as he knew it, changed forever.
When he thought back on it, only two things stayed in his memory. The first was a blinding flash of light followed by a huge fireball and an explosion that made everything go silent. The second was a black 1965 Mustang fishtailing out of the alley with two people in the front. Of course it could have been a 1964 and a half since Ford didn’t introduce that model until April of that year and the two model years were identical.
At least that’s what the boy was thinking when a large chunk of concrete block hit him in the forehead and things went all white.