Back in Saluda, SC, in the 1950s I was a Royal Ambassador for Christ. Being an RA meant developing Christian character in the company of boys my own age to Red Bank Baptist Church. To me in meant doing stuff with kids my age aka Stephen King’s Stand By Me. I suppose my character was developed by this Baptist Boy Scout outfit but not due to any conscious effort on my part.

My favorite time of the weekly meeting was the ride home. We were delivered to Red Bank by mothers or fathers who were probably as glad for time alone as the character development. We were taken home by either Carmen Charlie Charles or Kirby Able. We had a choice and a heap of thinking went into that choice.

Kirby had a Volkswagen Vanagon with rows of seats and much more pizazz and appeal than our parents Impalas, Galaxy 500s, or Plymouth Furies. Claim shot-gun and you could co-pilot with Kirby and watch him take the VW through the four gears, on the floor, not the steering column. I liked the notion of not having a hood best. You seemed pushed through the air toward your destination. But for all that, I almost never chose to ride with Kirby, who he was a neighbor two doors up on West Church Street, even though he usually carried my younger brother Cally home.

No, I much preferred Carmen for a variety of reasons. He charmed me. I knew other men who wore overalls like a uniform as he did, but they were not as neat as Carmen. He put his Dee Cees over a Dickie work shirt that was either green or blue and always neatly laundered. You could tell that he had changed into a fresh one after his day’s work at the saw mill. He always had a vinyl pocket liner with a full complement of writing utensils in his shirt pocket and would graciously loan one to fill in a lesson with.

Carmen wore round wire frames that are now popular but back then they weren’t. My notice went more to his hair and cheeks than those glasses. Blood vessels had apparently burst in his perpetually tanned cheeks, leaving a purple tinge. Ever seen hair parted so high it seems to be parted in the middle? That was the shape of Carmen’s and he kept it shiny and slicked back with hair tonic.

Carmen’s strongest asset was not his quaint appearance but his transportation. Warm weather meant the saw mill truck, an old Dodge or Chevy with tandem rear wheels and an open bed. After pledging Christian duty and praying at the end of a meeting, the Royal Ambassadors made for the parking lot ahead of its leaders to chase fire flies, tell lies, and talk about fast cars and baseball. Two groups formed around the choice of vehicles in anticipation of ride home and the visit to Fulmers when our dawdling leaders had decided we had played out a requisite amount of energy. The rule was that after a headcount was taken you had to stick with original driver. I always chose Carmen, or Carmen’s vehicle.

Fulmer’s was a first stop. To a passing motorist on the way to Atlanta, it was a truck stop with an attached speed shop and garage underneath on Highway 378 on the Columbia edge of Saluda. To us, it was a chance for one eat and one drink of our choice on Kirby and Carmen. First, though, we had to get there. Back then the two miles or so from the church seemed like a long way. Carmen instructed those who rode in the bed of the truck to stay against the bed of the cab and above all not to throw wood slabs. We liked taking the rough sawn bits of pine and throwing them at bushes and signs on the sly. What could be finer than sailing through the night air while shouting over the roar of a saw mill truck motor?

You’re right. Choosing the treats. R.C. Fulmer kept two soft drink chests full of the best selection of soda pops in Saluda. He even kept Tom’s peach flavor soda, and, of course, Chocolate Soldiers, Dixie Colas, and Upper 10s were a given. I was smart enough to browse for eats first. Why stand in line or be jostled around choosing Frosty root beer or a TrueAde? Best to let the crowd thin; after all, there was the problem of selecting a bag of of fried pork rinds or a can of Koby’s potato sticks or a Merita honey bun or a Baby Ruth. Some of the boys opted to have R.C. spear a hot Pen Rose sausage or an egg floating in vinegar. Seems like it was Johnny Adams who copied me and went about the selection backwards. We liked to eat and drink while looking over R.C.’s selection of mag wheels, chrome add ons, and various speed components.

The final leg of the trip home was better in cold weather because then Carmen would drive his Oldsmobile, one of those mid-1950s Rocket 88’s with a big block high horse power V-8. To this day, I don’t suppose anyone outside of my Carmen-riding RA’s knows our secret. We never told our parents. Quiet, Christian Carmen was a secret Fireball Roberts. Every Saturday night would find he and his wife Stella parked parked sideway on an embankment under of the big pine trees next to turn two of the dirt track in Newberry. Stella would sit crocheting or visiting with friends while Carmen mingled with groups of men who actually knew the racers and their cars. Visiting him on the day of a NASCAR event meant you had to be quiet so that he could hear the sound of the staticky announcer on the AM station report what position Rex White or Joe Weathers or Fireball himself were in.

We pushed Deacon Charles button on more than one occasion One call for “Hit it, Carmen” wasn’t enough. He demanded a chorus and we had to wear him down. Usually it happened on the way out the Denny Highway on the straight stretch short of William Ross’s house. Because he lived the farthest away, we insisted that we go to his house five or six miles out of town first. By the second or third loud chorus of “Hit it, Carmen” the metamorphosis would take hold. Carmen became Fireball II.

The white hood of the two-tone Rocket 88 lifted slowly but steadily. If I were in the middle rear of the rear seat, my boney back would begin to dig into the middle of the metal insignia that separated the back seat but not for long because I would fight the G forces in to sit up to see the hood ornament raise toward the sky. It was a two-winged rocket with a blocky tail and a long sharp noise that seemed to leave the long white hood once Carmen hit 80 or so. We hollered disappointment when he left off shy of 100 but not too loud because we wanted to hear the big V-8 rumble through the dual exhausts on the way down to proper road speed.

Such was the stuff of a small town boy’s night out.