The cars are are sleek, long rides with heavy chassis, and they rumble along Alvarado Street like big beasts waiting for a hunk of meat. Dozens of coats of paint and chrome shone in the evening light. Glorious makes and models, the pride of men who used to cruise boulevards in Bakersfield and Fresno, Colton and LA when they were teen punks, tough, excitable, young and full of hell. Pachuco hairstyles, two-tone Bel Airs and Firebirds turned heads, just like they did fifty years ago.
The air was thick with testosterone-driven nostalgia and beehive hairdo memories. The air was heavy with a fuel exhaust you don't usually inhale much of these days. As a kid, I heard teen guys in their cars racing each other on local streets in Carmel Valley, complete with screaming rubber and an occasional bashing crunch when a car spun out of control. It terrified me and seemed to be the very sound of violence and anger. How did I know. It was always in the dark and I could only hear and imagine; little girls hiding under their covers were a world apart from teen angst. It was all about dare, counter dare and twitching muscles, just looking for a chance to show off, make someone else back down.
The idling beasts parked along Alvarado last night were glossy, big, heroic and some even beautiful. Back seats boasting square footage equivalent to a double bed left no doubt about teen sexual behavior; it was easy to imagine. When men hung their left arm out of their open windows, with the right slung on top of the steering wheel, their women riding casually in the seat beside them, both looking around to catch someone's eye as they passed, time melted away to the days when they were all young and full of themselves, ready to race and prove something.
The thing they're proving now is that it was an exciting, confusing, but exhilarating time in their lives, when boredom and long stretches of adulthood yawned before them. They survived their own teen years and these chariots were their proving grounds in many ways. Now they're really only proving how much they love the cars and the lifestyle they found themselves in the middle of back then. The proof is impressive; unequivocally, the popping, roaring exhaust tones of a tricked-out street-ready ride quickens the pulse. Green vehicles be damned, just this one night. Johnny's gonna go cruisin' and get him a girl.
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1 comment:
You glossed over the most important part of the story. Those layers of shiny paint were applied to "sleds," "boats," and "junkers" that were rusty pieces of trash until their current owners restored them lovingly to their original showroom condition. Once a year in the event known as Cherries Jubilee, the restored autos are put on display by their owners. If those folks also remember the times when the autos were new and winsome, well, so much the better! Those were the good ol' days, when STYLE was more important than mere gas mileage. Who can wax nostalgic over a stupid Datsun or laughable 2-cylinder Citroen? But a little deuce Ford coupe, or a finned Chevvy sedan loaded with chrome--well, there you had something!
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