Oh Sweet Indiana. A land where time stands still, 1982 to be exact. I spotted Spicolli pulling in for gas, a quart of oil, and some Lotto tickets, and decided to go in for the kill. We got to talking about his rig:
Him: “I paid $400 for it and it’s only got 126,000 miles on it.”
Me : “Wow, that’s great.”
In my head I’m trying to remember the last time I heard of someone rolling the odometer on an early 80’s GM car. I’m thinking we should call “Ripley’s”.
Him: “Yeah, I figure I can get a few more years out of it.”
Me: “A few more years?!? Dude you’ll be lucky if you make it home tonight! (Wait, did I just say that out loud? No? Cool.)
He was a nice guy, real laid back. Likeable. After a little more chit-chat we parted ways, me with my pictures and him with his Nova. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the end was near, that the rust was spreading like a cancer across his Cragars. and that his Mickey Thomson 50’s were as bald as Clint Howard. I also didn’t tell him that the best thing he could do with his life at that instant was chuck the keys in the tall grass, head for the interstate with his thumb pointed to the nearest big city and leave his 275lb girlfriend to fend for herself in the Gas Mart, wandering the snack aisles in purgatory for all eternity. It’s called getting the fuck out of Dodge buddy. Or in your case, Chevy. Give it a try, while you’re still young.
If you would like to make a comment, please fill out the form below.
