By Mark S. Price Contributing columnist

Batting eyelashes and blowing kisses!

My classmate David Demo and I were taunting his older brother after he finished talking to a couple girls while sitting at the popular ice cream shop across the street from our elementary school.

After my buddy’s little league baseball game was called on account of the mercy rule, I joined his family for an impromptu trip across town to celebrate the pair of brothers exemplary athletic skills on the field.

Once we were ready to leave the hilltop ballpark, I climbed into the back seat of the yellow 1969 Chevy Impala Sport 4-door sedan with the Demo brothers.

As we made our way past all the stately homes along the boulevard while traveling toward the only traffic light in the borough, Paul Demo, Jr. wrapped his arms around these rising second graders for a private conversation.

“Dad doesn’t like it,” whispered the brown-haired stripling slouching down in between his cohorts on either side. “But since this car is big and yellow, David and I call it, ‘The Banana Boat.’”

“Cause no matter where we go in this town, everyone sees us coming; and they all know it’s us,” he added as we burst into a fit of laughter.

“I’m sitting right here,” revealed the man of the house as he shot his wife Beverly a smirk before looking in the rear-view mirror. “I can hear every word you’re saying back there; so you can stop being a wisenheimer.”

After turning left at the intersection of Washington and Main streets, the yellow submarine passed Johnston Road as it cruised on down the main thoroughfare of the small coal mining town.

“Is Dad feelin’ okay,” questioned the athletic youngster as these six year olds leaned forward to do a double take. “Cause I’m pretty sure we missed our turn back there right next to the post office.”

“We’re not going home just yet,” pronounced the stay-at-home mother flashing her pearly whites while glancing in the back seat. “Since you hit a triple and scored two runs, not to mention your team won the game, we thought that youns would like a special treat.”

“Jeepers creepers,” proclaimed the brown-eyed juvenile as we pulled into the parking lot of the stand-alone ice cream shop across the street from Bentleyville Main Street Elementary School. “I can’t believe we’re going to the Dari-Delite; cause I’ve been craving a hot fudge sundae all day long.”

“Well,” stated amiable gentleman with a wide grin while pulling into an empty parking place before turning off the engine. “You boys can all have ice cream; but you have to eat your supper before satisfying your sweet tooth.”

“That’s so groovy,” assessed the second born before giving his brother from another mother some skin. “I can’t believe we get to eat burgers and fries; and we also get to have ice cream on top of it.”

Once these little whippersnappers climbed out of the Chevy Impala, we scampered across the parking lot to claim one of the empty umbrella tables setting out in front of the small building.

When the lanky adolescent spotted the Cursi twins, wearing matching short shorts and tie dye t-shirts, he nervously stuffed his hands in his pockets as the sisters approached with ice cream cones in hand.

“We thought that was you,” mentioned Marcie while laughing as she bit into the vanilla ice cream cone. “Cause we definitely saw ‘The Banana Boat’ coming from a mile away.”

“Yeah,” observed Darcie with a sly grin moving her eyebrows up and down looking at her sister. “You surely can’t disguise yourself in that jalopy; cause even the astronauts can spot it from outer space.”

“It’s a big car,” professed the strapping young man cocking his head back while laughing at his own hilarity. “It’s so huge inside that my little brother and I can do cartwheels in the back seat.”

“You’re so comical, Pauly,” reasoned Marcie looking into the brown eyes of the handsome lad. “You sure know how to make a girl laugh; I could sit around and listen to your jokes all day.”

“Are those muscles I see under your shirt,” quizzed Darcie as she wrapped her hand around his upper arm giving it a gentle squeeze. “Did you buy a weight bench and start lifting dumbbells down in your basement?”

“No,” noted the bright-eyed stripling with a sheepish grin as he lifted both arms into the air to make a muscle. “I’ve been playing little league baseball up at Caramel Park.”

When Elizabeth “Betty” Cursi, the 10-year-old’s former fourth grade teacher, called after her daughter, his face turned beet red as both girls winked at him before running off.

Still blushing from the unfettered attention brought on by his female classmates, the athletic young man joined his younger brother and me at the metal table with attached seating.

“Pauly, you’re so funny,” uttered the improvisational actor with a wide grin as he placed the back of his hand to his forehead while mocking his big brother at the potential love connection. “I could sit here and let you tickle my funny bone all day long.”

“Oh Pauly,” I declared with eyes as big as saucers while framing my face with my hands. “You’re such a cutie pie; and I wanna give you a great big hug and kiss you right on your juicy lips.”

“Don’t be such a spaz,” replied Paul sticking out his tongue while whacking us on the top of the head. “They’re not my girlfriends; because they’re just a couple of girls in my class in school.”

As these rising second graders impersonated a couple of love birds pretending to smooch each other, the oldest youngling turned into the tickle monster inflicting his worst on the little tormentors causing a great deal of laughter all around.

Stay tuned for the conclusion to the story in my column next Tuesday.

Mark S. Price is a former city government/county education reporter for The Sampson Independent. He currently resides in Clinton.

Call: T: 910-592-8137 F: 910-592-8756 Address: 109 W. Main St. Clinton, NC 28328