{"id":7075,"date":"2014-06-30T09:11:23","date_gmt":"2014-06-30T13:11:23","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.gadflyonline.com\/home\/?p=7075"},"modified":"2014-07-22T12:06:16","modified_gmt":"2014-07-22T16:06:16","slug":"riding-in-mustangs","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/riding-in-mustangs\/","title":{"rendered":"Riding in Mustangs"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Mustang_585x585\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Rain spatters against my forehead so I yell at Chris to roll his window up. It\u2019s so hot and humid and smoky and knee-jerking cramped that I sit contorted forward, pulling the muscles in my gut so I can angle my shoulder into the console. The windshield against the night looks like space, deep dark space with white missiles streaming in at us faster and faster. Randy kicks the shifter. Whoaaaaaa\u2026wump!\u2014whoaaaaa. Each jerk of the gears sucks against my abs. We pump the Jensens. We pump our hands against our Levi\u2019d thighs. Everything on a Friday night is tension and expectation\u2014clumsy and awkward. Freaks try way too hard at weekends.<\/p>\n

\u201cIs that Casey ahead of us?\u00a0 Speed up\u2026 I think Kelly\u2019s with him.\u201d<\/p>\n

I say this but I don\u2019t think I have a chance with her. Randy\u2019s got the Mustang\u2014Chris is his best friend. I\u2019m just one of three ball-sacks in the back seat using my pants as an ash tray. Getting ashes on Randy\u2019s seat could mean another one of his parental freak outs. His dad gave him his restored 69 when it all came down with his mom and the divorce. It was something no sensible parent should give a kid\u2014351 horses for a pot head with an anxiety rope tied around his neck. Randy took the gift seriously. I guess he saw it as a spoil of war.<\/p>\n

Every Friday night we do the same thing\u2014blow out of his house in classic middle finger style. We light up smokes, pump up Zeppelin and grind the tires of Dad\u2019s dear old Mustang through a cloud of choking white smoke. His mother stands by the living room window watching\u2014arms folded, chest heaving. I see her disappear the same way every Friday. Sometimes I wish I were back there with her, sick as that sounds. I feel sorry for her. We\u2019d watch Rockford Files, then Dallas.\u00a0 I\u2019d mix her a whiskey sour and say, \u201cDon\u2019t worry Mrs. Brown. It\u2019s okay. Your son\u2019s not a total ass.\u201d<\/p>\n

Randy lays into the gas and the front of the Mustang rises up like a German shepherd pouncing up on a ground hog.\u00a0 He keeps riding up on Casey then backing off. \u201cCome on, Randy\u2014fuckin\u2019 lay back, man!\u201d I yell. \u201cStop flipping out\u2026\u201d he says, laughing. \u201cI\u2019m just teasing the dude. I mean, seriously, man\u2014a Dodge Dart.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJust cruise up next to them. Let me see who\u2019s in the car. Chris\u2014roll down the window,\u201d I turn to Jimmy who\u2019s in the middle seat, wedged tight against Toby\u2019s fat ass. His chain wallet digs into the side of my back. \u201cGimme a light, man,\u201d I wave my fingers up towards my face. I have the cigarette hanging out of my mouth and after I light it I turn my head and bore a smear of grey ash across the back of the front seat. \u201cFuck!\u201d\u00a0 The burning head of the smoke falls down under the seat. \u201cShit, man. Give me the lighter again.\u201d \u201cWhat the hell, man,\u201d Jimmy says as he jams his elbow into my side. Randy punches it and we fly into the lane of oncoming traffic.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are you doing, Randy, you dumb ass!\u201d I yell as we crash back against our seats. Toby\u2019s laughing hysterically. \u201cDamn these ludes rock!\u201d he yells out, a line of laugh-tears run against the side of his face as wind and specks of rain blow in across the back seat. \u201cYou took yours already, you dick!\u201d Jimmy blurts out. \u201cWait till we start drinking\u2014shit, what the hell!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI am<\/i> drinking!\u201d Toby yells back, opening a can and spraying the back of Randy\u2019s head. \u201cWhat the fuck, asshole!\u201d<\/p>\n

My head is now smashed against the back of Chris\u2019s head rest. My half lit cigarette hangs sideways, broken by the filter. I suck in on the smoke, trying to cup the two pieces together with my fingers. \u201cFuck it.\u201d I reach up to flick it out of Chris\u2019s half open window and hit the bottom part of the glass. Sparks and ash blow into my face, breaking the whole cigarette off as the 70 mile an hour wind blows it past my face, or out the window or behind me on top of Randy\u2019s new Jensens. \u201cSlow ride<\/i>\u2014I\u2019m sick of that fuckin\u2019 song, man!\u201d Chris hit the channel button. My Sharona<\/i>. \u201cNO!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWho was in the car? And why the fuck did we blow by so fast?\u201d\u00a0 Randy just smiles back at me as he slides the shifter over to fourth. The Dart is at least two miles back.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey\u2019re going to the lake, man. Isn\u2019t everyone going there?\u201d Randy says.<\/p>\n

\u201cNot in the rain, butt wipe. At school Casey said he was heading to that Glen Arm party, man. Shit. I have no idea where that is. Jimmy\u2014you talk to anyone?\u201d<\/p>\n

Jimmy looks up and starts to talk. \u201cLike, ah\u2026\u201d \u201cWe\u2019re doing the lake!\u201d Randy busts in. \u201cWhat the fuck\u2019s with the lake!\u201d \u201cCool out, Jimmy!\u201d Randy again busts in. Jimmy and Toby start laughing. \u201cThe ludes, boss, the ludes!\u201d \u201cPass a beer!\u201d \u201cMiller time!\u201d \u201cOpen it, dick wad!\u201d Randy punches it and we\u2019re cruising down the single lane straights by the fishing center. We\u2019re topping 80 by the time we hit the curves at Seven Sisters.<\/p>\n

\u201cSlow the fuck down, ass!\u201d \u201cHahahaha!\u201d My abs are stretched and burning as we hit the first turn at the dam. I hold on to Chris\u2019s head rest so I won\u2019t smash Jimmy and Toby to the other side of the seat. \u201cMore than a feeling! Bwaa Bwaa Bwaaa-Bwaaa-Bwaaa!\u201d<\/i> \u201cBoston! Hahahaha!\u201d \u201cPunch it\u201d \u201cSlow down!\u201d \u201cShit!\u201d The mustang slides on the second turn. \u201cWOOOOO!\u201d Randy\u2019s holding it. \u201cFuckin\u2019 trees!\u201d \u201cHahaha!\u201d \u201cTil I see Mary Ann walk away\u2026\u201d<\/i> \u201cJesus!\u201d \u201cWe\u2019re gonna bite it!\u201d \u201cBite me!\u201d \u201cHahahaha!\u201d \u201cAAAAHHHHHHH!\u201d The Mustang 180\u2019s on the last turn, slides sideways, backspin. \u201cFuck!\u201d Across lanes. \u201cAAHHHHHHH!\u201d \u201cI see my Mary Ann walkin\u2019 a-way a-a-a-aeee!! Bwaa Bwaa, Bwaa-Bwaa-Bwaa<\/i>!\u201d \u201cHahahaha!\u201d<\/p>\n

The Mustang swings to a skidding stop in a fire road entrance. The dam is just around the next turn. We sit back. Mouths open. \u201cWKTK Baltimore radio FM 104 has all\u2026<\/i>\u201d\u00a0 We sit there shocked, not saying a word. Steam drifts across the front of the hood. Randy pulls out like nothing\u2019s happened. We all light up smokes.<\/p>\n

We turn the corner into the parking lot at the dam.\u201d \u201cDamn, man. There\u2019s no one here.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDam, man,\u201d Toby says and points at the dam. Jimmy and Toby laugh with a muffled snort. Jimmy laughs at everything Toby fucking says.<\/p>\n

We sit listening to lame Al Stewart sing about some fuckin\u2019 cat. The drops of rain mix with the click of my can top. I suck in the warm Miller as foam pours down and soaks my crotch.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey\u2014isn\u2019t that Casey\u2019s car pulling in over there?\u201d Off in the corner, hidden in the rainy shadows stands Casey\u2019s green Dart idling with the lights on. Puffs of blue smoke rise up from the windows, mixing in with the fog.\u00a0 We rumble slowly over and pull up along side them. Chris rolls down the window.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s up, Casey\u2014where\u2019s that party on Glen Arm?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat party sucked.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat, like\u2014no pot, no beer, what kind of suck?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe parents were upstairs. It was like some kind of birthday shit.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

We sit in silence for a few seconds.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cYou guys got any beer?\u201d Casey says from the crack in his window. I can only make out his mouth from his mop of curly blonde hair. I see the red dots of his pimples along the side of his chin. Casey\u2019s not lucky in that department. The rain picks up again. Chris looks back and rubs his sideburns like he\u2019s thinking.<\/p>\n

\u201cNaw, man \u2013 like, down to like three. Sucks.\u201d\u00a0 Jimmy snickers and I kick his foot, which is placed on top of a pile of unopened Millers.<\/p>\n

\u201cIs that you, Tex?\u201d\u00a0 A girl\u2019s head pops forward from Casey\u2019s back seat. It\u2019s Kelly. Her long, frizzy brown hair falls forward in front of her face. She\u2019s smiling and looking straight at me. I lean up to the space between Chris\u2019s seat and the window. \u201cI like riding in Mustangs!\u201d she yells and her friend pulls her back, giggling.\u00a0 Casey starts to talk\u2026\u201dYou guys wanna go some\u2026\u201d \u201cEspecially if it is yours!\u00a0 Hahaha!\u201d \u201cSomewhere to like, this other party I know of\u2026\u201d \u201cI wanna ride on YOUR Mustang! Hahahaha!\u201d \u201cWhat\u2026like\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re just gonna cruise.\u201d Randy cuts in. I just sit there like a dumbass. Randy fires up the engine, revs it and starts backing out. I can still hear Kelly and her friends laughing as we pull out. I feel high. I feel like she likes me\u2014thinks about me. Maybe she\u2019s just being a sarcastic shit. Maybe Kelly\u2019s jokes were a way to get Randy\u2019s attention. I\u2019m used to that. But maybe not. She looked at me. I could tell. Her brown eyes paused when she leaned forward to see me. I could feel her eyes take me in. Pull me in. Hold me.<\/p>\n

We turn out on to York Road and cruise at a rumbling pace. Rain hits my face. The engine hums steady and we take in the flashing lights. \u201cHere come the jesters\u2026one, two, three\u2026<\/i>\u201d Flash\u2014Dunkin Donuts, flash-flash, street light\u2014Grand Union, street light–flash, neon crab, red-green, 7-Eleven. We pull in so Jimmy can get some smokes. He comes out with a bag of chips, peanut M&Ms and three burritos. Toby looks out at Jimmy and smiles. \u201cYou\u2019re a total trip, man. I soooo need a bur-ri<\/i>-to\u2026toe-toe-toe, a-huh, a-huh.\u201d He draws in on his bong, blowing a cloud of white smoke out onto the other parked cars as we pull away. \u201cWhat the fuck are you doin\u2019, man!\u00a0 Let\u2019s just get busted, already. It\u2019s a 7-Eleven, asshole!\u201d<\/p>\n

As we begin picking up speed Chris leans across the front seat, making a monkey face back at Toby. He has a burrito in one hand, which is dripping down on Randy\u2019s stick shift, and his other hand hangs outside the window. His monkey speak elevates to a snorting laugh. He itches his face with his half-eaten burrito, smearing bean across his cheek. He\u2019s completely wrecked. The rain makes everything shadowy and silver. We\u2019re entering the surreal zone of boring Friday nights\u2014a dangerous place for freaks. Randy punches the engine and picks up speed. \u201cHahahaha!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat the fuck is that!\u201d Randy yells over at Jimmy.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m holding a shopping cart, man!\u00a0 Hahaha!<\/p>\n

\u201cLet it go! Jesus! What the fuck!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRed Light!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShit!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLook at the cart!\u00a0 Hahahaha!\u00a0 It\u2019ll still going, man! Hahaha!<\/p>\n

\u201cSHIT! Not before<\/i> the damn light! Not before I stopped!\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Jimmy, Toby and I are smashed in between the seats trying to see around Randy.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s turning left with the traffic!\u00a0 Hahaha!\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s tailgating that Pinto! Woooo! Don\u2019t lock it up, Pinto boy!\u201d \u201c Now it\u2019s going\u2026 Now\u2026. Whoa!\u2026.\u201d \u00a0\u201cWhoa!..\u201d \u201cOh fuck! Texaco! Hahaha! Check the fuckin\u2019 oil! Hahaha!\u201d \u201cWait! The mail truck nailed it!\u201d \u201cNooooo!\u201d \u201cMissed! Hahaha!\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Randy turns a sharp right before the light turns green and cuts down into a neighborhood. He\u2019s pounding on the steering wheel, laughing and yelling, red faced, pissed and cracking up at the same time. \u201cYou dumb ass!\u00a0 What\u2026 man\u2026.\u00a0 If you scratched my goddamn car like one\u2026 shit\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n

He starts down a narrow back road. We\u2019re breathing heavily, nervously mumbling just for the sake of hearing ourselves talk. Silence means the thought of cops. We creep towards three sleeping ranchers. Creeping past one\u2026. Creeping past two\u2026. Creeping past three\u2026.\u201cWhooooap!\u00a0 Whoop!-Whoop!\u201d \u201cFuck! Shhhhhh\u2026\u201d \u201cAh Jesus, man.\u201d \u201cHide the fuckin\u2019 cans!\u201d \u201cPush \u2018em under the seat.\u201d \u201cFuck…like where?\u00a0 \u201cDon\u2019t crunch the can asshole!\u201d \u201cSHHHHH!!!\u201d\u201dDon\u2019t duck down. He\u2019ll fuckin\u2019 sho\u2026 BONG!\u201d \u201cJacket!\u201d There-there-THERE! DUMBASS!\u201d\u201cShhhhh..\u201d We\u2019re so busted\u2026\u201d\u201cShut up\u201d \u201cShut up\u201d \u201cShut up\u201d \u201cYou shut up\u201d \u201cShut up.\u201d \u201cSeriously, shut-the-fuck-up\u2026. Here he comes\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201c Yes, officer\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n

There\u2019s a pause that lasts hours in our heads. No one moves. My right leg cramps as I stretch my ankle across a pile of empty cans. Beer-sweat-cigarettes- burrito gas-cigarette smoke-spilled bong water\u2014it all hovers around our feet and mouths, oozing upwards and wrapping around our necks, choking us to near panic. We try to suck in our own breath, deep breaths set to steady flashes of red, then blue, then red. The cop\u2019s headlights make the side of Mark\u2019s face look pale and stressed. His jaw hangs down and he\u2019s trying to look unaffected. He stares blankly forward against the flashing lights, reminding me of a tired dad I once saw looking for his kids in a beachside funhouse.<\/p>\n

\u201cLicense and registration\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, officer\u2026here\u2019s a\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBeep! 221 in process \u2013 immediate response \u2013 repeat -221 in process–respond. Corner York and Dunkirk Lane-over, beep!<\/i>\u201d<\/p>\n

Within seconds everything goes dark again. No cop. No scary gun. No God\u2019s flashlight. There\u2019s just the emptiness and serenity of those 1950s Split-level ranchers. Some night birds are whistling. I hear the lonesome rumble of a Harley somewhere off in the distance. The cop car had swooshed off. The license and registration lay safely in Randy\u2019s lap. We sit looking at each other. \u201cWHAT-THE-FUUUCK!\u2026GO! Go! GO! Hahahahaha! HAHAHAHA! Weeeee hoo!\u00a0 Shhhhhhh!\u201d \u201cShhhhhhhh\u201d \u201cWhy!\u201d \u201cI don\u2019t know!\u201d\u201cCrank it up!\u201d \u201cHahaha!\u201d<\/p>\n

We start up through the developments, through the sleeping ranchers to the spilt levels and then up the hill to Eastridge where the houses get real. Each of us tells the story to each other over and over and each time we get louder until we\u2019re screaming. \u201cBig wheels keep on turning\u2026\u201d \u201cTURN IT UP!\u201d We pull back on to York Road and blow along the strip like fugitives. Casey\u2019s Dart was turning right on Warren and we cross three lanes to catch him. It isn\u2019t raining and the warm May air blows my hair up over my bandana. It whips back and forth against my face. I think about how the whole world is right here. Everything I need. Everything alive and now and moving fast. I can\u2019t wait to tell Kelly. I can\u2019t wait for Monday to tell everybody. The story will never get old. It will live and grow and change, but it will never get old. Nothing ever gets old in Mustangs.<\/p>\n

—<\/p>\n

Emerson Probst<\/span>\u00a0\u00a0<\/span>is a writer living in Baltimore, Maryland.<\/span>\u00a0\u00a0<\/span>He\u2019s currently working on a collection of stories about the long-haired kids that came of age in the late 1970s. For him, this was truly the lost generation, not quite Boomers \u2013 not quite Gen-Xers.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span>Not hippies and not yet Wall Street players. Where Hunter S. Thompson claimed the hippie movement died somewhere west of Vegas in the early 70s, Emerson sees it as having died a much slower death in the quiet Baltimore suburbs of 1979.\u00a0See his blog at: \u00a0http:\/\/emerson1.wix.com\/emersonprobst<\/a><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Rain spatters against my forehead so I yell at Chris to roll his window up. It\u2019s so hot and humid and smoky and knee-jerking cramped that I sit contorted forward, pulling the muscles in my gut so I can angle my shoulder into the console. The windshield against the night looks like space, deep dark space with white missiles streaming in at us faster and faster. Randy kicks the shifter. Whoaaaaaa\u2026wump!\u2014whoaaaaa. Each jerk of the gears sucks against my abs. We pump the Jensens. We pump our hands against our Levi\u2019d thighs. Everything on a Friday night is tension and expectation\u2014clumsy and awkward. Freaks try way too hard at weekends.<\/p>\n

READ MORE.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":54,"featured_media":7300,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[4,200,219,217],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7075"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/54"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=7075"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7075\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7302,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7075\/revisions\/7302"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/7300"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=7075"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=7075"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=7075"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}