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My "steady" was away at college, so I was technically free to double with one of my best friends who was only allowed on a car date if there was another couple along. Neither of us knew who the date would be, only that he was her date's cousin. I was in my room getting ready when they came for me. My mother came into my bedroom doubled over and laughing in a wheezing gasp as she managed to get out the words: "wait until you see what Arlene has done to you!"
Let me insert here that our 50's ranch was the only one on our street without a porch. We just had a stoop which had a NASA approved light bulb that was seen throughout the neighborhood. There for all the world to see, in all his glory, stood the great detective himself - Sherlock Holmes. Fedora, mustache and meerschaum pipe. I don't think he had the plaid mac, but he may have. It was 1967, I was 17. This was not cool.
I wanted to die but rushing to the car in darkness was more feasible and that's what I did. The next hour was a study in keeping the car away from places where I might be recognized and in keeping the master sleuth from discovering parts of my anatomy that attracted him.
Even having my phony-pony tail come off in his hand didn't deter him. I told him I was pinned to a very large wrestler and only out for Arlene's sake, totally not interested in making out and insisted they take me home. Nevertheless, he planted a kiss on me as I got out of the car. Apparently he colored his mustache - it rubbed off on me.
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