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.