I pushed the café door open and Mom and the girls followed me in. A roar of voices competed with Dick Haymes singing “The More I See You” on the jukebox. A grease-laden cloud of cigarette smoke hung over the room. The booths, in the El Paso bus station, along both walls, were packed with soldiers and the counter was jammed too. It was June, l945 and the war in Europe was finally over.

        Looking back now, I know it was only the smell of fresh coffee that convinced my mother to accept one of the friendly offers from the soldiers of “Here, over here, sit with us.” The waitress, in her pink and white starched uniform, wiped the tabletop half-heartedly. Pulling a pencil from her hairnet, she stood with eyebrows raised, tapping it against her order pad, waiting.

        After they gave their order, my sister Ileane and cousin Mary Ann, both seventeen, drifted over to look at the selections on the jukebox.  Mary Ann’s feet, in bobby sox and loafers, began a little shuffling dance step and soon a young marine joined her. She tossed her long black curls and laughed, a slight dimple appearing in both cheeks. Flashing a warm smile equally on the young soldiers, sailors and marines that gathered around, she danced with no one for more than a minute until another eager fellow cut in. Her lacy peasant blouse showed off her deep tan shoulders.  

        My sister, Ileane, shook her head no when one of the young guys asked her to dance.  She was a pretty, natural blonde with wide set blue eyes. Both the girls wore lipstick, but that was all. Mom wouldn’t allow more makeup, especially mascara.  Ileane’s pageboy, pulled over to the side with a silver barrette, was just touching her shoulders. . The blue straps of her sundress were revealed as she flipped her tresses around provocatively. Having my Mom close by kept the flipping down to a minimum.

        I wasn’t included in the flirting, but I was fascinated with the ritual.

        A cheeky young sailor leaned over the top of the booth and asked if I wanted to cut a rug?”

        “She’s twelve and she doesn’t,” Mom answered firmly in her “don’t even think of asking why” voice, while I turned crimson red and slid as far down in the booth as I could. 

        Mom got a refill on her coffee just as a marine stuck his head through the door to the station and yelled, “ Bus to Dallas is here”. Everyone grabbed their bags and scrambled for the depot door. Mom threw her money on the table and we grabbed our toast and suitcases and bolted after them.

        “Hurry, hurry” she urged us. We took our place at the end of an overwhelming line. That bus bound for Dallas filled and we turned away. Wait! An empty bus marked Dallas pulled into the bay next to it.  Mom was grinning because now we were the first in line.   We pushed forward and got ready to climb aboard when the door swung open. The driver descended to the bottom step and yelled the phrase we heard over and over again on our trip,  “Service men first.”

        The men pushed ahead and that bus filled immediately.  We picked up our suitcases and shuffled back toward the waiting room to claim a seat.  I guess it was probably a good thing we didn’t realize those wooden benches, with little raised dividers between the seats to discourage vagrants from sleeping in the terminal, was going to be our beds for the next two nights.