Jeremiah's Most Excellent Adventure
Planet Earth!
I hope you’re staying awake through the most annoying week of the year. Can I be honest? I’d Venmo the government $100 right this second if it meant being done with Daylight Savings forever. Leave my clock’s alone, dang it!
I have a little story for you today. One of my biggest regrets is I don’t have a photo of the car mentioned in this tale. As you’ll soon see, I didn’t have it long enough to immortalize with photography. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
We are playing in Nashville and Atlanta on our “Working it Out” tour! We’ll absolutely be playing the song that inspired the story you’re about to read. I hope you’ll join us. More soon!
But for now: Enjoy today’s little rambling.
Aquamarine.
If you called it blue, someone would correct you and say it’s green. And vice versa.
That’s the best way to describe the new (to me) Volkswagen Beetle that’s delivered in my yard the fall semester of my senior year at Northeast Jones High School. My dad was familiar with the internet but still found himself skeptical at it’s staying power. Never in his wildest dreams did he think it possible to buy an actual car with the click of a mouse. He added it to his cart like it was a box of garbage bags. Like the moon landing the very same year, my 1969 VW was cleared for landing.
“And it’s practically brand new!” He cheered as he inflated the flat tires.
The finishing touch to the world’s wildest impulse buy was a novelty license plate he paid $26 extra for. He pulled the shining white square from a brown paper bag and hid it from my view like it was this year’s Christmas present. I’d prefer a lump of coal over the ‘69 DUDE’ he flipped over with eyes of “you’re welcome.” According to the government of Mississippi, it was illegal drive without such a humiliating label and not doing so would result in a fine of up to $1,000. Would you accept cash or credit? He wiped it with Windex and a dirty washrag, smiling like a raccoon.
“Get it? 69, dude!” My father said with his thumbs reaching God.
“Dad. You didn’t,” I said, mortified.
“You’ve never seen Bill and Ted?”
“No one is going to think Bill and Ted. They’re going to think I’m a pervert. You have to take it off.”
“Like, totally not, dude! It’s classic!”
“It’s predatory.” I said. But the second I climbed in the front seat, I was fine to be called anything. I could practically smell the peeled up shag carpet and musk of decades old marijuana. I bet Ringo Starr came up with the drum part to “Get Back” right there in the back bench seat. Luxury is the drivers seat of an old antique getaway car. And the second I learned how to drive a stick, I was out of here, baby.
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“And listen to the horn!” I squealed when I went to pick CJ up for tennis practice. The ah-ooh-gah sound really elevated the aesthetic I was going for. It said, ‘There aren’t eleven clowns crammed in this car, but there sure could be!’ I sipped my earl gray tea with my pinky held high as I opened the door for her.
“Does it actually drive?” She asked. She leaned away from it like it was a snake that could bite her.
“What do you mean? This thing is basically brand new!” I said, wiping off chunks of rust from the side mirror. “Are you ready to go?” It took multiple tries and all of my shoulder power to get her door shut once she finally mustered the bravery to climb in. I was confident that by the time we reached the country club, she’d sell her Camry and get a Beetle to match.
Once I had reached cruising altitude, there was little to fear. Four gears was four more than I was used to. But on I-59, it was 70 and breezy. I pulled the top down to let CJ feel what it felt like to be classy. The shouting enhanced the experience. The engine, though seemingly louder by the second, roared in all of its glory. “All cars from the ‘60’s sputter like this”, I explained.
“Even the new ones!”
A swarm of people buzzed at us in the parking lot at our arrival. For the first time in my life, I felt famous. Each member of the hive was flapping their wings and pumping their fist as we rounded off old highway 84. If this was fame, I could really get used to it. CJ, though, seemed concerned about our newfound fandom.
“WHAT’S WRONG?” I shouted.
“WHY ARE THEY POINTING AT US?” She called.
“BECAUSE OF HOW GREAT WE LOOK.”
“THEY SEEM UPSET.”
“WHY WOULD THEY BE UPSET?” I turned the bug toward the tennis courts. The wind around us finally settled and our ears unfilled. CJ was right: they were yelling. Did they not think we would sign autographs? I’m a man of the people. What once seemed like roaring fans now seemed more like an angry mob rushing my car. These weren’t our rabid fans; they were concerned citizens. And suddenly, the roar became clear and I could understand as the many voices became one.
“FIRE!” they shouted.
But where?
I turned my head to the right.
I turned my head to the left.
I couldn’t see a fire but I could tell we were these people’s only hope. I once watched a Smokey the Bear video during Algebra I and I know there’s something about water that fire’s can’t seem to tolerate. I had all the knowledge I needed to extinguish the blaze. I just needed to find it! And lucky for us, we didn’t have to go far if we wanted to put out the fire.
The 60’s were a wild time. Richard Nixon was president. Sirhan Sirhan pleaded guilty to the murder of Robert Kennedy. Dave Thomas opened the first Wendy’s restaurant. But wildest of all: automobile engineers put engines in the trunk of the car instead of the front. That way, if the engine fails, a driver would have no way of knowing they spent the last 25 miles with their girlfriend inside a whirling supernova. No wonder we haven’t made it back to the moon.
That’s how I learned CJ can do a somersault off a burning car. Perfect form as she cartwheeled away with the speed of a Patas monkey. I was caught inside a moment so surreal, I had no idea what to do with my limbs. I froze and stared as caveman’s first television swallowed up my car whole in front of a giant group of people wearing sweat-wicking polo shirts. Once the car made a loud popping sound in the engine, I fell back to earth. It’s time to act.
So I called my dad.
“How is it on fire? It’s basically brand new!”
Well, that didn’t work.
So I improvised. I stormed the tennis courts and snatched the first cooler of Gatorade I could find. It can’t be a felony to steal the team’s hydration if it keeps the Country Club from burning to the ground. My Beetle sizzled and petered out, coughing and choking until it’s final breath. The mob dispersed around me like it was all just a dream. I was overwhelmed by the smell of burned rubber and mountain berry blast. CJ joined me to stare at the rubbled remains of my short lived hot rod.
“I bet they let you keep the license plate,” she offered.
“Most excellent,” I said, pulling a burned up tennis racket from the back seat.