Two-Name Two-Step
When I was seventeen, I fell in love with a long-haired, brown-eyed college boy. He was older and in college, and Steve was his name—his only name. My high school friends and I all had two names: Peggy Sue, Jimmy Joe, Ricky Lee, Dixie Ann, and Debby Lou. I was Debby Lou. I dubbed this naming sport “The Texas Two-Name Two-Step.” Steve soon got caught up in the spirit and started adding “Bob” to everyone’s name. He even called his mother "Mom Bob." Try it. Add Bob to your name; it should make you smile. So I became Deb Bob. I married the long-haired, brown-eyed college boy. The marriage didn’t last, but the nickname did. To this day, my friends and family call me Deb Bob. It still makes me smile. However, when Steve debuted my name to the outside world, I did not smile.
It was my eighteenth birthday and a Friday night. If you live in Texas, you know the significance of Friday nights; we live for high school football. I was a majorette and had the honor of twirling my baton for the hometown fans. Steve decided to give me a surprise birthday party after the game. He picked me up in his green Gremlin, brown eyes shining, and smelling like Budweiser. I didn’t care. I was in love. We pulled up to his wood frame house (painted almost the same green as his Gremlin), and Steven turned off the motor. He gave me a kiss on the cheek and jumped out of the car. He opened my car door, offered his hand and said, “This way, birthday girl.”
I was still dressed in my majorette uniform; white go-go boots, sequined hot pants with panty hose that were flesh colored and speckled with glitter. The top was a military cut, double breasted vest with a high collar that showed off my padded push up bra. The shine on my knee-high boots matched the shine of the White Rain hair spray holding my perfect pony tail in place. I could still feel the heat of the stadium lights on my face when I had marched out in front of the crowd. I could hear the applause from the fans when I had caught my baton after tossing it so high in the air that I could spin three times and then catch it behind my back.
We walked in the front door, and I noticed a keg of beer, bowls of chips, and an empty living room. Steve sat me down in the middle of the old, yellow-gold sofa and told me to stay put. Then he yelled for everyone to come out, because “Deb Bob was here.” About twenty people I had never met stumbled out of the back room. My majorette smile did not waiver as these strangers wished me a Happy Birthday.
I was a bit overwhelmed. I didn’t know any of these people, by my heart was racing and the stiff smile had turned into a genuine look of pleasure. All these college kids were here for my birthday. I was part of something. Someone asked me if I wanted a beer. Of course I wanted a beer, I was eighteen. (Back then, it was the legal drinking age.) There was only one problem: the keg was empty. It seemed my new friends had conducted a few contests on drinking straight from the keg.
Now I felt strange and out of place. Boys slumped against the wall in blue jeans and tie dyed shirts. Girls slid by me with long flowing skirts, smelling like patchouli oil, not a padded bra in sight. I was not a part of this. Then Steve came up and put his arms around me, smiled, and kissed me passionately in front of all of his friends. He whispered that he loved me and leered at his friends.
I was then informed that there were a few more surprises. Steve had invited my parents. Why he thought that would be a good surprise, I will never know. There they were, my sweet, but very drunk parents, sipping vodka in the kitchen. My mom was dressed in her matching lime green stretch-pants and floral top. Every short gray hair on her head was in place. The smoke from her cigarette was rising up and obscuring her half-closed, sky-blue eyes. She winked at me. My dad walked toward me to give me a hug. Dressed in a brown sports coat, starched white shirt and creased pants, he put his arm around me and part of his drink slowly dripped on my boots. I quickly bent down to wipe my boots and to cover the look of horror stuck on my face. I had to re-group. Once again, I reminded myself that I was in love with a college boy, partying with college kids, and it was MY birthday. I guess it didn’t matter that my parents were drunk, everyone was. My internal pep talk did not work. I still felt alone.
Steve glanced my way and we made eye contact. The loving looks and over-bright smile on his face had been replaced with a goofy, frustrated look. He announced, a little too loudly, “It’s time for the cake!” Cake is good. I love cake. Once again, the guests were rounded up, and my chocolate cake was brought out ablaze with eighteen blue candles. I’m smiling. The drunken masses start to sing Happy Birthday. The only problem is, most of them don’t know my name and certainly don’t know my nick name. I hear several strange attempts at "Happy Birthday Des Sob," "Happy Birthday Rebby," and even one "Happy Birthday Sally." I remember thinking I am not a fan of surprise parties. As I looked down at the blue wax dripping slowly into the chocolate icing, I saw the writing on the cake. It said "Happy Birthday . . . . . Deb and Bob." At that point, I wanted to find Bob and kick his ass.