In June of 1972 I was dating a boy with a license, and a car.
I’ll let the shock wear off…
This was very important. Paramount to my very survival, in fact.
Without my own means to get the hell out of the house (I was fifteen), boyfriends were cultivated based on their, 1) ability to spend money on me, 2) agreement that I was always right, and 3) transportation.
Don’t roll your eyes. So were yours.
This particular night was a Wednesday.
I remember this because I was in driver’s ed classes and Wednesday classes were Night Classes (learning to drive after dark).
He was waiting in my parent’s driveway as we pulled up and I exited the Vega in a cloud of cigarette smoke mingled with other substances (Our ‘teacher’ was a Woodstock burn-out).
It was 8:30pm and dusk.
Pat and I were supposed to go to a movie but it was too late to make the 9pm show so we decided to go downtown and cruise the ‘Strip’ (and by ‘Strip’ I mean the 100 foot stretch of asphalt in front of Baskin Robbins- it was a small town).
After having done the obligatory four pass ‘I can’t see you‘ head-tilt to the side while rolling by with my arms around my guy with-a-CAR move, we decided the social part of our night was sufficiently accomplished and went parking.