Thursday, February 20, 2014

Who Would Regret a Ride in a Classic White Corvette?

Who would regret a ride in a white Corvette? Well, me actually.

Some odd number of years ago (seems like yesterday), I was outside in the evening air at a dance with a couple of girlfriends when this tall, good looking man pulled into the parking lot in his white Corvette.  Nowadays, you would compare him to Brad Pitt. My girlfriends got all giggly.

“What a car!” one of them said.

“What a guy!” the other said.

“I’d love to go for a ride in that.”

“Me too. I’d love to go for a ride in anything with him.”

Being the farm girl that I am, I was much more impressed with the maroon heavy-duty Ford work truck two rows away. (Ouch, that actually stung a little.  I’m a Dodge girl now.)  Anyway, I couldn’t see what the fuss was all about.  You could only seat two people in that car, and you certainly couldn’t haul hay in it.

“Here he comes,” one of my friends squealed.

He walked right up to me, reached out his hand, and said, “Wanna go for a ride, sweetheart?”

Um, actually I didn’t, but all the envious looks got to me. Wow!  Me—coveted. Even some of the other girls in the parking lot looked disappointed they hadn’t been chosen.

I knew I should feel honored he selected me, but frankly he appeared a little too cocky for my taste.  I mean, where was his cowboy boots, broad shoulders, muscles, moustache, and farmer’s tan?

I couldn’t resist though.  “Sure,” I said, taking his hand.

Multiple shoulders drooped, and I smiled.

I got settled into the passenger seat and he sped off.  Seriously.  I mean he SPED off, like in breaking the speed limit.  He headed down the street, talking mainly about himself and his car.  I knew I was supposed to be impressed, but the heavy metal rock music did nothing for me and neither did he. I felt like I was sitting in a trash compactor.  The car was so low to the ground, I could feel every bump and hole in the road.

John began cursing at all the other drivers on the road.  He swerved around a blue Trans Am with reckless abandonment. The oncoming car honked at him.  My breath caught in my throat, I half-covered my face with my hands, and my abdomen knotted as he veered back into the right lane, barely missing the front end of the Trans Am.

The Trans Am’s horn blared.  John cursed, slammed on the brakes, and slowed. The car almost rear-ended us.  Could it get any more uncomfortable? I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping the whole nightmare would go away. I wanted to escape my captor, but so far all the lights were in our favor. Then John veered off the road, his body totally tense, his left leg bobbing up and down, and him mumbling under his breath. The Trans Am passed us, horn honking.  John flipped him off.

Yes, that’s what I said.  He flipped him off.
So, I’m looking around for a phone booth. (Yes, some of us are still alive who remember before cell phones.) Did I dare get out in this part of town?  Did I even have a quarter to make a call? 

I could hear the conversation now:
“Hey, Dad, I got in this total stranger’s white Corvette to make all my girlfriends jealous, and he flipped out with a bad case of road rage.  Can you come and get me?”

My head hit the back of the seat as John took off after the driver of the Trans Am.  (This car really could do zero to sixty in ten seconds flat.)

“Okay,” I said.  “Thanks for the little jaunt.  Would you please take me back to the dance?”

John was hell-bent on teaching the Trans Am owner a lesson. He never even bothered to respond.

“Yeah, this is a great car.  Now will you take me back, please?” I said again.

I’d done a few other careless things in my life at that point, but I really regretted getting in that car.

John turned onto State Street and a race ensued.  No matter how much I begged and pleaded, he wouldn’t stop.  The jerk totally had no respect for me or anyone else on the road. 

Of course he won the race, but at that point, I was completely disgusted.  He took me back to the dance, asked for my phone number, and finally let me out.   Pretty sure I gave him the wrong number.  

On wobbly legs, I crossed the parking lot to my friends, trying to act like taking a ride in a Corvette was the highlight of my life.  I vowed right then and there to never climb into another car with a lunatic.

Yeah, it might have happened again, but that’s another story.

Any regrets you've had?

Cindy A. Christiansen
Sweet Romance, Humor, Suspense…and Dogs!
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