October 18, 1975
The McClellan High School band had trekked east across half of Arkansas and the entire breadth of the Mississippi River to compete in the Memphis State Marching Contest. This was the performance that really mattered, the culmination of all our efforts since marching camp started up in mid-August.
In no particular order, here follow random memories of that momentous day. Like unfortunate raccoons, they remain inadvertently captured in the rusty bear trap of my memory.
Starting early, we rode off into the sunrise in unaccustomed luxury, snugly ensconced in buses that were not even the least bit yellow. These fine buses were equipped with air conditioning, upholstered seats with headrests, and even toilets. So superior were these toilets to the McClellan High boys’ room, they had toilet paper, doors that closed, and graffiti that was generally spelled correctly.
That evening, after the contest, we attended the Memphis State Football game, where we partied until halftime. Just as McClellan football games, band folks rarely cared about what happened on the field unless a marching band was out there. Our disinterest was so pervasive, it was downright inconvenient when our football team scored, forcing us to bang out the fight song yet again, perhaps interrupting a nice chat with a cute clarinet player.
After mesmerizing performances by the two college bands, festivities resumed until we re-boarded the buses after the game. The long ride home was a delicious 3 hour necking session, although it came with honorary membership in the Blue Balls Hall of Fame.
Earlier that day, the McClellan band performance garnered a II at contest, the superior I rating eluding us again.
As disappointing as our score was, the day remains indelible in my history; it was the last time I would relish a particular treat that, like stepping in fresh saber-tooth tiger poop, can no longer be experienced.
You see, it was the third and final time I dined at the venerable institution known as Burger Chef.
In 1954, the first Burger Chef introduced their burgers and fries to the hamburger hungry Hoosiers of Indiana. This Terre haute cuisine caught on quickly and Burger Chef restaurants multiplied. At one point, there were more Burger Chefs across America than any other burger restaurants with the exception of McDonald’s.
Since the Baby Boom began, fast food has been hawked by a King, a Red Haired Girl, a White Haired Colonel, or some other clown. At Burger Chef, the victuals were peddled by cartoon characters the Burger Chef and his young sous chef, Jeff. B.C. & J., sporting matching baby blue aprons with white polka dots, were perfect spokesmen because they were precisely as bland and forgettable as the food.
Because of its proximity to the Memphis State campus, or maybe because the place was never overcrowded with eager customers, we dined each year at this famous squat ‘n’ gobble.
Winning another II at marching contest could not compete with the crushing disappointment of those limp French fries. They were such a waste of perfectly good ketchup that France insisted they be renamed.
In retrospect, it was a good thing we dined at Burger Chef rather than in a nearby Italian restaurant, however much tastier the chow might have been. Side-effects on the bus trip could have been disastrous. Garlic, essential to the Italian palate, would have hampered the coming anticipated-and-marginally-supervised kissing session.
Come to think of it, my testicles might have preferred that.
