The Night Of The ChevelleOctober 24, 2009 - Author: newscoma - Comments are closed
Yesterday in Hoots, everyone had a birthday.
The Grad Student (who is working on her thesis right now. I’ve lit a candle for her because that’s a lot of brain work that’s going to have to be expended in the next couple of weeks), my pal NeNe (Not the one from the Real Housewives of Atlanta, the one from Hoots) and Mr. Bob, my $10 dollar attorney. So the day was spent celebrating the turning of another year and, me being me, waxed nostalgic on my youth in the proverbial rear-view window. I’m sentimental old broad about these things but don’t tell anybody.
I ran into the very famous Dirk Diggler, who now wants to be called Diggler Dirk, because he says that he wants to reduce expectations when people meet him. The responsibility must weigh on him. Heh.
Dirk loves to spin a tale and he’s pretty damned good at it. Last night, I heard the story of when he was a rambunctious buck growing up in Hoots, that he had a bad-assed Chevelle. His Chevelle liked to go very fast apparently and there was an incident where one of our state troopers was involved. (When one gets older, our antics during our misbegotten youth are known as incidents. It’s true.) Let’s just say that Dirk was misbehaving.
Dirk was put in the back of the cruiser with some of his yahoo buddies but, alas, an authentic crime spree came up and the trooper had to set up an emergency road block due to some kind of crime. Dirk said last night a “villain” needed to be dealt with immediately so Dirk began something akin to Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. What said “villain” did remains unclear to me but apparently he did something pretty awful. Dirk was caught in the middle of all of this (and on a sidenote: I also learned last night he loves George Burns, which is another story for another post. You just have to know Dirk and it makes perfect sense.)
So he was along for the ride with the trooper who was fighting CRIME!
The road block apparently got a bit out of control as the police and the villain went at it and eventually there were shots fired. Dirk said he was yelling in the back of the cruiser something along the lines of “Holy F*^k!” and “Wait a DOG-GONE minute!!!”
There were times here in Hoots that we knew every deputy, every trooper and every city cop and they would let us be silly kids, scare the bejesus out of us and send us home to our disapproving parents who remembered that they were once young and reckless too. Then the cops would meet up with our parents at the next Elks Lodge meeting, share a drink and laugh at how they “got” us. And, honestly, they did and we usually ended up learning something. Basically the trooper was going to take Dirk in to “teach him a lesson” not to go like Steve McQueen in his Chevelle on the roads of Hoots Commons but real-life crime got in the way so Dirk was an unsuspecting voyeur and unwilling participant as he was detained in the trooper’s backseat.
By the time Dirk was escorted to jail and the “villain” (that cracks me up because Dirk has dozens and dozens of Dirkisms), his dad was waiting for him. He’d been there for about three hours waiting and wondering what the hell is son had gotten into. Basically that’s how it would happen, the cops would call and have our parents waiting for us and this happened in this case as well.
“Where have you been?” his dad asked incredulously.
I think this might have been one time that Dirk was speechless.
So our hero, Dirk Diggler, was sent home, the villain went to jail and I’m assuming that his dad shared a cup of coffee with the trooper later on to discuss his son’s rowdy, albeit harmless, antics. If you are wondering, Dirk gave me permission to retell his tale. Hell, it was probably around 30 years ago. (And, once again, I remind you that yesterday I was a nostalgic kitten as I wax sentimental.)
Ahh, the 70s, I remember you fondly. You and your muscle cars, your neighborhood cops and your polyester pantsuits that worked so well. Hoots, dare I say, I love you when I hear stories like this.
Categories: When The Beer Runs Dry, The Coma Cries