Riding In Cars With Boys - I

Reckless youth. Add 4000 pounds of steel and chrome. Season liberally with testosterone. Result: disaster.

For some unknown reason my old school mate Dan was allowed to own and drive a car. Not a nimble little coupe that you might find today; oh no, he had to have one of the biggest, clumsiest, tail-fin sprouting denizens of the road ever made: a 1959 Plymouth station wagon. Captain America is what he called it. A station wagon, good for hauling band equipment. Good for hauling friends around. Good for picking up girls. OK - 2 out of three isn't bad (actually, there was some success achieved with this vehicle in that respect - but that is another story...) Dan liked to drive around, as is the wont of many a newly enfranchised driver. One night he enlisted his ‘buddies’ to go for a 'cruise' of the Northside’s ‘hot spots’. Not much was happening that night, however, so at about 10 p.m. we pulled into the neighborhood Dairy Queen, for some sustenance. As our mouths devoured our ‘Mr. Misty’ treats, our eyes devoured a trio of girls in a sporty coupe next to our behemoth. Dan struck up a conversation, trying to scare up a little ‘action’ with his sure-fire Bill Cosby imitations. Riiight! The girls took off (I guess they just didn’t care for ‘The Cos’.) Dan then completely lost his mind. “Let's follow ‘em!’ he cried, and the chase was on.

The girls sped faster and faster, they had a new car (and a MUCH better vehicle.) Dan floored that old sled and the Plymouth’s push-button tranny started to whine. Up ahead, a sharp left turn ended the street we were on. The girls made it. We did not. “We’re going to crash!” Dan exclaimed, giving any of us in the car who may not have been paying attention a timely play-by-play.

BANG!

We were all alright (a miracle!) but the Captain America and the telephone pole were history. Dan lost his license for six months. He got it back, and another Plymouth to go with it - just in time for...to be continued...