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Drivin’ one? Oh, honey, it’s a hoot! My cousin Buford had a beat-up ‘89 Escort, red as a rooster’s comb, and that thing rattled like my knees after a long show. We’d pile in, six of us—don’t ask how, we was skinny back then—and zip to the drive-in. Felt like “a paradise lost,” like in “Tabu,” cruisin’ with no cares, just laughin’ and prayin’ it wouldn’t stall. Surprised me how it kept goin’, tough lil’ bugger! I’d holler, “This car’s got more heart than me after three whiskeys!”

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As the night goes on, I’m getting more and more tired. My feet are killing me. I’m thinking about that kebab place on de Hoofdstraat. You know the one? Best late-night snack ever. But I can’t leave my post. Duty calls, right?

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