Thursday, April 05, 2007

Some people call me Maurice


Apropos of the high-school related thoughts caused by April’s 16th bday, I got to thinking about the one major perk of turning 16 that is actually true: getting your driver’s license. (Well, at least, it was in Texass back in my day [1990], if you’d had driver’s ed that year).

I was never, how you say, a good driver. I hit the fucking pole in the parallel-parking portion of the driving test, which they graciously overlooked. To ALL Y’ALL’S PERIL! And for the test, I was in my great-grandmother’s Bonneville, the only car in my family’s fleet that was both A) insured, inspected and up to code, and B) automatic.

But so I passed, and they gave me the license. What, then, could I drive? Why, the 1980 Buick Skylark that my cousin GAVE to my brother, who then SOLD it to me. This vehicle was SEXXXAY. I tell you whut. It was of a lemony hue, or rather, a once-lemony hue now faded to sort of a sickly yellowish cast. It was square, like when a kid draws a car, know what I mean? No aerodynamic stylings, folks — just utility. It had bench seats, upholstered in a charming tan-and-off-whitish check pattern, and ceiling upholstery that I kept in place with artful thumbtack designs. I named it Maurice on first sight.

Who cared, though — it RAN! It worked! It functioned! And but waaait … oh shit, it was manual. Stick motherfuckin shift, fools. I almost cried when I found that out. I could barely operate the goddamned Bonnie! Many awesome times ensued, once my mom & brother taught me how not to kill people in it (dad tried once and we got in the biggest fight of our lives to that date) — the friends I toted around, the laps we all cruised, the sneak runs to Denton that I did NOT have permission for, the taillight of some kid’s Probe that I smashed in the school parking lot and then just kind of quietly drove away from, the off-campus lunchtime derby (200 kids all racing for the same 3 restaurants), the many many tickets I got (ranging from inspection sticker wrongdoing to driving 61 in a 60), the fabulous unintentional peelouts (one of which punctuated the most killer breakup line I ever uttered) … goddamn, that Buick was good to me. Miss ya, Maurice — you was good times, broseph. Good times.


PS: This vehicle was insured by the "Sunshine Insurance Agency," otherwise known as a piece of paper my dad conned some lady into printing out for him. Oi. And mark my word: I was totally prepared to sell my dad down the river if I ever got busted for that. Cops in Texass do not fuck around when it comes to insurance.

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2 Comments:

Blogger bgirl said...

oh PLEASE tell us the break-up line. My best was "I had a bad dream, and you were in it."

And I drove a Fiero (yeah, she's a Pontiac), which are made of fiberglass. I'm pretty sure my parents wanted me dead.

1:05 PM  
Blogger Gleemonex said...

Well, I'll say this about the 'Mo, it was built like a fuckin TANK. I know this because I sideswiped a telephone pole once, reaaal good, and it made only the shallowest tiniest dent. Rawk.

The break-up line?? Hmmmm. Well, sorry to give that much of a buildup, but it was really only awesome in context, and because the look on his face stays with me to this day -- McDonald's parking lot, couple weeks before xmas, late on a Friday night when all the kids were there, and I'd just gotten into my car after being dumped by this guy I'd been with since summer (an eternity in high-school years), and man, the heart was RAW right then. He says a morose goodbye through my open window, and I go, "Yeah, well, Merry FUCKING Christmas!" and -- PEELOUT. Major, loud, little bit o' fishtailing ... all the kids saw, it was great. Course, they couldn't tell it was because I couldn't frickin DRIVE, not because I had mad drift skillz.

2:14 PM  

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