Chapter 1

I’m Martin Robert Lawrence Stevens, but I go by Marty, and this story is about my life, not all of it, just the good parts. Today’s date is September 2nd, 2060, and I am sixty-five. Facts for this story came from journals I kept, ending when my eldest daughter graduated from high school. I decided to start writing my memoirs after receiving a letter mailed by my first wife, Liz, postmarked five days before I received it. Unfortunately, there was one major problem, Liz died forty years earlier.

I was born on the 5th of July, 1995. You probably thought I would say born on the 4th of July, but I missed that honor by three minutes. I heard many years later that Momma was very upset and tried to get the doctor to change the time.

My memories of growing up begin at the start of seventh grade, probably because that’s when I started keeping a journal. My first entry was about the dance lessons Momma insisted I take because being able to dance would be valuable to me as an adult.

Or, as she told me, “Have you ever seen people that are excellent dancers with frowns on their faces?”

I couldn’t argue with that statement, so grudgingly, I took lessons for several years. The dance studio belonged to Madame Carlisle, who settled in my hometown when her family emigrated from Hungary in the 50s. My dance classes were every Tuesday and Thursday evening. After my first lesson, I realized that most of the class consisted of older women like my mother, with large pillows on their chests for me to rest my head against during slow dances. I loved the fast dances because my partner’s body parts were flapping around. Yes, I was a teenage pervert and loved every minute of dance class.

Momma also made me attend one of her meetings with the Fine Arts Society (F ART S). After that evening, I volunteered and almost begged to go with her. The members made up a delightful cross-section of women, ages twenty-five to seventy-five, my favorite age range for women. When Momma let me out of my chair, I began practicing the fine art of schmoozing.

My favorite patron of the arts was Mrs. Olivia Goldrake. ‘Mama mia,’ if Sir Isaac Newton had met Olivia, he would have questioned whether gravity could exist. When I directed my charm at her, she looked at me like a lioness glaring at her next meal.

At this time, formal introductions are in order. Alexander Stevens is my father, but he goes by Alex and is the vice president and CFO of Stevens Aerospace and Defense, located in Greenville, South Carolina. That’s his last name on the company stationery, but his older brother Bob is the president and CEO.

My momma, the Grande Dame of our household, is Darla Coleen Montgomery-Stevens, housewife,

mother, and mistress of the credit card. Her motto is “You earn it, and I’ll spend it, and if I’m happy, you will be compensated with my charms, if you know what I mean.” The first time I heard that statement, I had no clue what she meant. But, in the not-so-distant future, I would come to understand money was not the only currency in the world of grown-ups.

My parents, three sisters, and I lived in a comfortable five-bedroom home in a suburb of Greenville. I loved my sisters but couldn’t stand to be around them. Dianna, or D as I called her, was older than me by almost seven years. Dixie was a year younger than me, and Danni was two years behind me.

Did Momma and Dad stop having sex with each other in the years between Dianna’s and my birth? I’ll never know because I’m not bat shit crazy enough to ask Momma that question.

The two years between the summer after seventh grade and the summer before tenth grade were uneventful years for me. I was a typical horny teenage boy going through puberty, and my height finally caught up with the girls my age. I had one exceptional erotic memory during that period of time and never told anyone about it until I started writing.

A year before she graduated college, Dianna was home for her last free summer before getting married. Her fiancé, Joe, was off on a one-month cruise because he was in Naval ROTC at Chapel Hill. So one Saturday, while he was gone, Dianna went out to hang with some of her girlfriends from high school. Well, that’s what she told Momma, but I found out the truth later that night.

The phone rang at 10:45, and I answered immediately because I was expecting a call from a girl; okay, I was hoping for a phone call from a girl. Not unexpectedly, the girl on the other end of the line wasn’t the girl I was hoping would call. It was Mindy McDonald, Dianna’s BFF in high school.

“Marty, you must drive to Ray’s Roadhouse as fast as possible to rescue your drunk sister. We’re hiding her in the ladies’ room because she’s been dancing and flirting with the usual scum that comes to this shit hole bar.”

“Do you mean that dive near Simpsonville? That place is a slaughterhouse. What the hell are you doing there?”

“I wanted to go to the Tigers’ Den, but Dianna insisted that she wanted to go here because she took a dare from a girl in her sorority.”

“That would be Jenny, the bitch, and I’ll bet she’s not there, is she? Crap, she’s lucky Momma and Dad are asleep. I’ll be there in 20 minutes. Does anyone else need a ride, and are their bouncers working tonight?”

“No, the rest of us can fit in Joan’s car, and there are three huge guys that keep fights from breaking out.”

“Good, I don’t have to bring my shotgun.”

I got there in 12 minutes and parked right next to the entrance. As I walked through the front doorway, I was stopped by bouncer number one, “You’re not old enough to be here, kid; go home.”

“I’m here to pick up my sister, who is feeling no pain and is hiding in the Ladies’ Room. One of her girlfriends called me and said she was dirty dancing with the wrong guys.”

“Oh, that group. Tell them don’t ever come back here because I don’t need the aggravation.”