BJ Thomas bought us our first beer

The instant I got my driver’s license on June 5, 1968, I bought a used white Dodge Coronet 440 with push-button transmission and plush nylon seats. It had six cylinders, burned leaded gas, and a back seat that would later double as a make-out bed. I paid $400 that I had saved working for my Dad, and he matched it — I’m just realizing that he bought the car while making my 16-year-old self think I had bought it.

The second week I owned the Dodge, David “Ray” Mathews and I drove to Atlantic Beach. It was 120 back-road miles, and we made it in 75 minutes. Lucky to be alive. Ray was my buddy from the neighborhood, who also worked for my Dad at the Allen Animal Hospital and kennel. We scooped dog shit for cash and sneaked into gyms around town to shoot hoops. We once camped at a gym all night with friends, sleeping on some wrestling mats and dreaming of the Tarheels and the NBA.

At the beach, Ray and I cruised around the designated girl-hunting circuit: from the fishing pier, by the Pavilion, past the Sanitary Fish Market, the Atlantic Beach Hotel (or had that already burned?), the Dairy Queen, the House of Pancakes, Ron Jon Surf Shop, Putt Putt, Swinging Singles Batting Cage, the juke joints where the Devil waited to snatch innocent young Baptists.

Our favorite hangout was The Pavilion, a combination pinball arcade, wooden dance floor, beer hall, and teen mixer. This was the Neanderthal Age of arcade games, when mechanical machines rewarded bumping, shoving, and wizarding. For a quarter, in Official Baseball, you could slug a homerun over an actual fence. Rows of pinball games lined the walls: Big Chief, Grand Slam, Gigi, Hollywood Starlets; and SkeeBall. There were a few new electric (the word electronic not yet in our vocabulary) games: Centipede, Pac Man, Galaga, Donkey Kong, Defender.

One Saturday afternoon, David “Ray” and I stumbled into The Pavilion to get out of the sun.

“Hey, look, that’s BJ Thomas,” Ray said.

“Who?” (In case you don’t know him either, check out this link:) https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/B._J._Thomas

“BJ Thomas! He’s a Rock Star!” said Ray.

I looked at BJ, who was playing to an empty dance floor. He had long curly black hair and was singing Eyes of a New York Woman to the backs of teens playing games and sipping Cherry Coke floats. This was years before he won an Academy Award for best song in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. The song was Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head.

Check out the song BJ was singing in 1968: Eyes of a New York Woman

David “Ray” Mathews knew his music.

We pulled a table up to the front of the stage and listened to Billy Joe. He was wearing Levis rolled up at the cuff and a white T shirt with a pack of cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve. No greasy hair for BJ. This was the dawning of the Age of Aquarius. He nodded at us to signal that we were cool, too. We each put a quarter in his tip jar, and he mouthed a “thank you.”

He played another song, took a break, and — SAT DOWN AT OUR TABLE.

He shook his long hair back and tied it with a leather band inlaid with a turquoise stone. “You fellas want a beer?”

Ray and I looked at each other. A beer!? With BJ Thomas?! We were speechless.

“Schlitz OK?” asked BJ.

We nodded. He ambled over to the bar and brought back two Tall Boys in the can, foam spilling down the sides.

“Drink up!” my men, he said.

I glanced at Ray, who picked up his beer and held it to his lips. I took a sip. The bitter brew flew into my sinuses and out my nose. BJ looked away while I caught my breath.

BJ took a long pull on his Schlitz. This was a few years before champagne at the Academy Awards. “Where y’all from?”

David “Ray” and I looked at each other. “Rocky Mount.”

Just saying the words left a hick taste in my mouth, but BJ was cool.

He nodded. “We all got to be from somewhere. I’m from south Texas, but I plan on going other places, if you know what I mean.”

We nodded as if we did. A guitar player himself, Ray asked him about his guitar and got some songwriting tips. I held the cold Schlitz up to my sunburned face.

BJ played another set while we pretended to drink our beers.

BJ, wherever you are, thanks for the Schiltz — and the memory.