Everybody needs one.
Maverick had Iceman and my high school wingman (at least in ninth grade anyway) was a girl actually, named Molly Fletcher.
We both lived in government housing on the US Air Force base Upper Heyford about seventy miles from London.
Her father worked as some sort of “defense consultant” and my stepfather was a Master Sergeant.
Molly had already graduated and I was yet a young high school freshman, but there was something about her.
She didn’t have a great body, in fact she was overweight.
I preferred fit, built women.
She did not have a very sweet smile, in fact, I rarely saw her break into more than a sly grin, and that might be when we were drinking. I prefer smiling, happy people in general, but especially in a girlfriend.
She had squinty eyes; slits more appropriately, continually searching for light.
I have fallen for girls just on cat eyes alone.
But when she laughed, it was like a virus.
She could talk shit with the best of them, and I know, because I am in that lot.
She knew football and being from Belfast, she was a huge George Best and Manchester United fan, as was I.
And drink?
This girl was amazing.
Her brew was Watney’s Red Barrel, but I preferred the “double D,” Double Diamond.
I would meet her after I got out of school and we would drink a few pints and then I’d leave to beat both my parents home from work. A quick bite to eat and off to “the library” to study, but in reality I was playing pinball and snooker and downing pint after pint which on its own was a bit of alright, but not when you start adding shots of Johnny Walker Black scotch into the mix.
Predictably, I fell from grace.
The pub we were at required a short bus ride down the hill, but in my condition, my own two feet appeared to be the only viable means of locomotion available to me.
Uphill.
Dead drunk.
I woke up, miraculously, in my own bed.
As if on cue, the doorbell rang.
Molly standing on the porch, looking fresh and ready to roll, and I certainly knew what kind of shit stew I had to look like.
Molly had pushed, shoved, dragged and carried me up the hill all the way home and put me, somehow, through my window and into my bedroom.
By herself.
“Wha…
“Nice barf show,” she started before I could ask. “You’d better get a hose to that before anyone sees it.” She was pointing to my soiled window ledge and wall.
I was dying and so glad my parents weren’t home.
“Here” she said, handing me a can of Budweiser.
“Let’s go pussy! Matchday on the BBC!”
United were playing none other than Alan Ball and the lot from Everton.
But we had Nobby Stiles, Bobby Charlton and Dennis Law. Oh yeah, and that striker from Northern Ireland.
We would go on to finish second to our rivals Manchester City in the League that year.
We are in the pub, and the lads are finishing off a 3-1 thrashing of the Toffees when two beautiful birds in tight-fitting tops and mini-skirts show up and one of them lights a cigarette and calls me over.
“Lose the ugly duckling and let’s have a hoot.”
I looked back at Molly, back at the two very hot and very willing girls, back at Molly, and walked over and walked my wingman out the door.
Never a second thought.
Stay well.
