Written by Michael Landolfi – 

“I ain’t gon ride in no Shivolay!”

So we walked – all the way to Smilin’ Jack’s Seafood-N-Hushpuppies in Surfside, about three miles.

“Why won’t cha ride in a Chevrolet?”

“Cause ma daddy never did. He would drive a Merkurry, or even a Buick, but he always said that a Shivolay was for commoners. And we wasn’t no commoners.”

I had to agree. She was not common.

I was proud of my brand new El Camino convertible. It was beautiful, but she was gorgeous. I let the insult slide. We’d met at the cotton candy stand beside the pier. She agreed to have dinner with me, but wouldn’t tell me her name. Every time I asked, she only grinned and flashed incredible hazel eyes.

As we walked, she read aloud what the different signs said.

The third time I asked her name she read, “Sweet Tea,” and said, “You can call me Sweet Tea. I ain’t gonna tell ya ma real name till I figgur out if I like ya, or not.”

It was certainly not common, but I went with it.

She ordered the Captain’s Platter. It was a huge pile of everything.

“How ya gonna eat all that?”

“I ain’t. I just like the boiled shrimp… well and a few hushpuppies.”

“Huh? Well I don’t mean to pry, but why’d ya order it if you knew you weren’t gonna eat that much?”

“Oh. Well, mamma always said if a boy was taking ya out, ta order the most expensive dish on the menu and drink water with a slice of lemon in it.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, that way he knows ya got expensive tastes and the water ‘n lemon shows ya got couth.”

I smiled and watched her squeeze lemon into her water glass. I wasn’t entirely sure what couth was, but I bet it wasn’t common.

After the meal, we sat on the beach ‘til almost dark.

“I gotta go now, since it’s dark,” she said.

I offered to drive her home.

“Oh, that’s alright. I only live around the corner from here. I’ll just walk. It’ll be alright.” She stood up and left.

“Hey, Sweat Tea! Ya gonna tell me your name?”

Over her shoulder she giggled, “Maybe tomorrow, if I see ya and ya buy some more cotton candy.”

I thought about her for almost three miles as I walked back to my car. I couldn’t stop grinning. She was the most uncommon girl I’d ever met. The next day, I bought some cotton candy.

At the end of summer I returned to school. A week later, I came home one afternoon and found Juanita sitting on the porch of the farmhouse I rented.

“Daddy don’t like it, but I told him I couldn’t live without cha. So he brung me up here.” She smiled as bright as the sun. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

We were together for sixteen years and daddy was right – nothing about her was common. Every day with her was fresh. She was innocent and enchanting, sensual and whimsical. She loved motorcycles, but wouldn’t ride on one.

“I just like the sound of ‘em. Rrummrumm. And all that power they got. It’s kinda like bein’ a cowboy in modern day times.”

And she had to have fresh flowers; giant white lilies were her favorite. They lasted for days and the fragrance was hypnotic.

She didn’t care about money. She’d spend it if she had any, or could live forever without it. She loved puppies and would hug and pet and gush all over them, but never wanted one of her own. Sometimes she’d sleep till late afternoon and sometimes she’d be up before the birds, taking a hot bath with a dozen scented candles burning.

In 1973 we went to a peace rally in D.C. A bunch of us were arrested, handcuffed, and taken to jail. When ‘Nita saw that she would be riding in a Chevy paddy wagon, she raised such a fuss in front of a news crew that the cops let her go. We laughed about that a million times.

And years later, after our car was stolen, she sat on the curb and absolutely refused to get in the rental car the insurance company sent. I had to explain to the agent that ‘Nita was very particular.

“Please send a Buick, or Cadillac. I’ll pay the difference if I have to.”

“Sir I can’t do that.”

“Then we’ll have to walk. You can cancel our policy.”

We moved to the mountains and settled down in the country. We had a nice house and a garden. I worked and she stayed home, like in the fifties. We never had kids. So we had the time and freedom for romance and fun. We showered each other with love. Life with ‘Nita was beautiful.

In 1986, ‘Nita became ill. She was diagnosed with breast cancer and it had spread to her brain. She was constantly nauseated and in the end couldn’t walk. The last few days she was delirious, either talking nonsense or unable to respond. I was holding her when she died.

The most uncommon thing about ‘Nita was that she never told me she loved me. I guess it was supposed to be understood. With her final breaths, she rallied and said, “Sweet tea? Don’t cha never forget…” she gasped for air and I began to cry figuring what she was about to say with her last breath.

“I love you too,” I whispered as she struggled.

“I ain’t gon ride in no Shivolay.”

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Asheville native, Michael Landolfi survived Catholic school, the 70s and the Marine Corps. He lives an untamed life in Bent Creek, is on the trails daily and writes wild stories for those with short attention spans. His tales will tickle your funny bone, pinch your heart and twist your gut. Imagination run wild. Find out for yourself. His new book, 5-Minute Short Stories: A Bathroom Book, containing 35, 5 minute stories, is available on Amazon.