Of Boys and Buicks
2009
The year was 1984. I was sixteen, an automotive innocent, a child of the double-nickel. Having been one of those kids who, by virtue of their birthday, ended up being one of the youngest in their grade, I could only watch as my closest friends got their licenses up to nine months before I could. But now—with the formalities of learner’s permits and driving tests successfully dealt with—it was my turn. I joined the ranks of the wannabe fast and furious.
My weapon of choice was a 1980 Buick Regal. I was fortunate on two counts. One, because it was essentially a free car, a hand-me-down from my dad. Two, because it had been my dad’s car. My father, one of the most responsible and orderly people on the planet, handed me the keys to what was essentially a new car with 55,000 very law-abiding miles on it. The two-tone copper and brown paint still gleamed, the tan interior, unsullied by stray french fries, sand, or bio-matter of any sort, had no visible signs of wear. The vinyl bench seats shined from weekly Pledge furniture-polish treatments. The stock, chromed “mags” were free of road tar and brake dust. Only white-wall tires blemished its appearance. Read the rest of this entry »
Comment