In June of '87, I was with a passel of friends somewhere in the Florida panhandle where we were celebrating our recent graduation from Long Beach High. A parting of the ways was fast approaching for the group, and we were looking for a few more final hurrahs.
The crew had been basking in the surf and sand for a week, and with funds running low, this was going to be one of our last nights in town. All of us piled into rides and started cruising the local strip looking for anything exciting to pop up.
Someone signaled to pull into one of the Alvin's Island tourist emporiums that dotted the boardwalk and strip, and we all converged in the parking lot. I took advantage of the stop and picked up a souvenir T-shirt and some guava jelly.
Taking my kitsch to the lone register, I saw the guys had all gathered around the only employee in the place. She had long, dark hair, surprisingly fair skin for living in the sun belt, and wore jeans, a polo, and a linen jacket rolled up to her elbows. She was actually kind of cute, and all the guys swarming around her made it look like she was holding court.
Obviously accustomed to the attention of the male tourists of the species, she was at ease verbally sparring with members of our crew. It took a turn when one of them asked if she wanted to join us at a club down the road.
"Depends. What are you driving?" Most responded they were in jeeps and trucks. Learning this, she smiled. "Ah! You're a bunch of 'boggy boys'". We had no idea what she meant so she decided to school us in the vernacular. "You know, those guys that never grew up and keep playing in the mud." Her derisive laugh left no room for misinterpretation. We'd all just been insulted.
Dissing a guy's ride, in particular his first one, is almost guaranteed to tweak him off. Wanting to be rid of her continuing barbs and vacate the scene quickly, Mike and Chris, who were riding shotgun and passenger with me, were paying for their stuff. As she rang Chris up, she tried to get in one last dig. "I suppose you've got a big ol' truck, too?" Chris nodded.
"I do. But he's our ride," and he nodded towards me.
"Yeah. I'm the yellow Mustang out in the lot." This seemed to stifle her jabs momentarily, once again showing the 'Stang had more game than me.
We were all headed for the exit and almost out the door when one of us realized we hadn't asked the obvious question. Turning back towards her, he asked, "So...what do you drive?" She was immediately evasive and hedged.
"Well, it's just temporary for now." That stopped us in our tracks. Sensing a counteroffensive in the "Dis My Ride" conflict we all paused and turned. Under more direct questioning, she relented. "It's a Yugo, OK? I drive a Yugo."
Everyone was immediately doubled over in laughter. Recovering, we waved goodbye to our one-time antagonizer, piled into our convoy of jeeps, trucks, and a lone 1970 Mustang, and headed for a nightclub down the road. Again, as funds were low, gaining entry was a problem. Mike solved this with a stroke of genius, detailed in the now classic missive, Rock-tober 07, 2015.
Once through the club doors, the rock and roll stars aligned themselves perfectly for me as I heard staccato piano chords announcing the start of a favorite Bob Seger tune. As the song played over the din of the crowd, I was smiling ear to ear, letting the moment wash over me. We all joined some of the ladies from our class already on the dance floor and kicked off a memorable last hurrah.
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