Where’s My Car?

In a previous post I referred to a period in my life as a very fuzzy black hole. A time when I was having a blast with not a care in the world. I was in my early twenties, living at home and had no one but myself to answer to. Well, there was my Mom and Dad…

In my junior year of high school at the age of 16, I met some pretty cool people. They introduced me to a completely different lifestyle that included alcohol and all sorts of mind altering stuff. I liked these people. They were my friends and I felt comfortable with them. It didn’t matter that I was handing over my entire paycheck to pay for cocaine. They were my friends.

And over the next bunch of years I partied like a champ. There was a disco (Yes, a disco) that we would go to every Friday and Saturday night in Orangeburg, New York by the name of The Cuckoo’s Nest. It was a bar that one would go to meet people, even if it was for just one night. It was that kind of family oriented establishment frequented by only the most responsible adults. We would go there every week-end and every time we went we would prepare for arrival with specialized refreshments and other substances that would ensure we were all in an exceptionally good mood.

On one occasion, I got my 1966 Volkswagen Beetle stuck between two trees in the mud at 4:00 AM. I was wearing a Tony Manero 3 piece white suit that eventually turned dark brown because of all the mud that we were trying to get out of. I think I got home right about the time my Dad was leaving for work. It was not a pleasant experience.

Then there was the time that I was with these good friends partying all night and all seemed ok until I got up the next morning. I got out of bed, shaved, showered, got dressed and went outside to the driveway to get into my car to go to work but my car wasn’t there. A 1966 Volkswagen Beetle isn’t the biggest car out there but it’s still a little difficult to misplace.

At just that moment when I started wondering where the fuck my car is, my Mom comes outside and asks me “Bobby, where is your car?” My immediate thought was, well she’s not too pissed off at me since she didn’t call me Robert. She only called me that when she was really, really upset with me. In any case, it was not the best of circumstances and all I could come up with was “I’m not sure, Mom”.  Not the answer she was hoping for which led to an extended period of time with me listening to the pitfalls of having this lifestyle while I stressed over trying to figure out where the fuck my car was so I could get to work. I spent the next four hours driving around with a friend in the big yellow school bus that she drove trying to locate my car and finally found it in a Texaco gas station about 10 minutes from home. I have no idea how the car got there or how I got home and this got me thinking that perhaps this lifestyle isn’t for me.

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