My best friend Gary got his drivers license a few months before I did. His default car was a heinous red 1970-ish Datsun station wagon that no self-respecting 16 year old guy would be seen in.
Once in a while, his dad let him drive the studly ‘72 blue Chevy Nova, but only after being warned: “Don’t ride the clutch” and “Don’t you go chasing around. I mean it.”
Which was sort of like a dare, right?
I’d get an excited call at some random hour, and Gary was on the other end, speaking quickly: “I got the Nova. I’ll be there in 10. Be ready.”
We never knew where to go in a town like Covina. We’d usually end up on Covina Hills Road, going too fast, windows down, music blasting. Our destination was typically Puddingstone reservoir, In-N-Out burger, or some long forgotten taco drive-thru, where Gary once got tongue-tied and accidentally ordered a “beat and mean burrito” at the loudspeaker, and we couldn’t stop laughing long enough to catch our breath and finish the order. We just drove off, out of embarrassment.
We went to Newport Beach or Balboa Island countless times, and always with the intention of meeting surfer chicks, which never actually happened, probably because we were in the Datsun instead of the Nova. In fact I’m sure of it.
Except one time we were on the 55 freeway heading home, and a convertible with 4 gorgeous girls pulled up along side of us and began waving enthusiastically. We both had a “who, me?” look on our faces as we continued driving north.
We couldn’t believe our good fortune, and we were waving back, when Gary suddenly noticed something in his rear view mirror. We’d left our beach towels on top of the car, and they were caught up in the roof rack and flapping around at 70 mph, and the girls were pointing and laughing — not waving and smiling.
SMUDGED POSTCARDS 