Once I started dating, I met this fellow, Marcus Whiting. Marcus was clean-shaven and stood five foot six, weighed around 175 pounds, and kept his hair in a short fade. He was a groovy kinda guy and the lead singer of a rock group. His band played regularly at the Pumpkin Room, a lounge on the corner of 71st and Jeffery. Back then, this was the hangout where all the happenings were. He’d always come onstage wearing his black, gold, and a red scarf wrapped around his head in a bandanna style. Whenever Marcus sang, he swayed seductively. His performances were out of this world, which was what attracted me to him. Even when I heard they were playing out of state, I was right there to listen to the band. Mom would babysit, and I had my little red 1972 Nova to get around in.
There was one time I asked Peaches, “Want to take a road trip to Saginaw, Michigan? It’s only 450 miles, and we can pull an all-nighter.”
Peaches eagerly replied, “Why not? That sounds like fun.” When we arrived, our faces were already familiar. Some of the band members called us “groupies.”
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