It was a simpler time.
No cell phones.
No electric cars.
Computers, with less gigs than your cell phone, were the size of a Mac Truck.
Gasoline was 25 cents a gallon.
And the ONLY way to meet girls was… gulp…in person.
The bowling alley.
School…except I went to an all-boys magnet school.
Cruising around, looking cool.
And that was the problem. H and I NEEDED A CAR!
H was my best buddy.
In Philly, where we grew up, only the rich kids had cars. On a good day, H and I pooled our money to share a Philly’s steak sandwich – with fried onions, extra cheese, lettuce and tomatoes, smothered in catsup. It still makes my mouth water.
So, the day that H was able to borrow his mom’s car was HUGE.
We got in the less-than-stellar 63 Chevy, that was parallel-parked on his street, with H behind the wheel.
Two REALLY cute girls were walking down the sidewalk.
H rolled down his window and hung his left arm out the door (for those of you who wonder why someone would hang his arm out the window – It was defined, by the likes of H, as cool).
Then he put the car in gear and roared out of the parking spot.
A second later, there was a huge metal-against-metal ripping sound.
H, in the disguise of Mr. Cool, went too close to the car parked in front of us, and destroyed the passenger side door.
That was what it was like to enter the world of “cool” in my youth.
But, and it’s a big one, that’s where a lot of my ideas for novels come from.
Check out THE REAL STORY, a mystery