"You're driving tonight, Allen. It'll be hilarious," said a mumbled voice that sneaked out from the smokers crowded around Seth Raines' Explorer.
David Allen knew nothing about speakers or 'systems', nor would it have mattered if he did. Seth had recently had a new stereo installed, and Alice in Chains "Down in a Hole" blared from the open tailgate.
"I've been guilty of kicking myself in the teeth," David honed in on Layne Staley's admission, until Becca, a classmate of his since elementary school, shouldered him as she chased Seth around the school parking lot. Becca was getting a head start on her perpetual weekend dramatics.
"That's my CD and you know it, asshole!"
A pack of Merits fell from the front pocket of Becca's uniform blouse. Most of the seniors in David's class were eighteen by this time of year, including Becca. Judging by the brand, it appeared she still chose to steal the cigarettes from her housekeepers purse instead of buying them herself.
"Sounds good," said David. "Let me know."
He recognized most of these relationships as temporary, and knew that, for him, they would end the day after graduation.
David drove a 1979 Oldsmobile Cutlass. Over the past three years, it had become a virtual mascot at Episcopal. Upon arrival each morning, a smoke cloud would escape from under the hood with a desperate force, like someone gasping for air after being held underwater. The smoke would rise so high, David often thought it could serve as a signal to his first period teacher that he would soon be in attendance. Occasionally when he would get ready to head home, a handful of onlookers would applaud if the ignition turned over on the first try.
It was Friday, and Episcopal was in the second round of the high school football playoffs. There was plenty of excitement among his friends, and David felt it as well.
The cool November air agreed with David's car. The air conditioner had bailed long ago, and there wasn't much interest from he or his parents in getting it repaired. The once mighty Olds must have been a pioneer in power windows and locks technology, a feature that was surprisingly reliable. It was humbled, though, by a factory-installed eight track, three blown speakers, and a torn out headliner that David had hastily removed before picking up a date junior year. The once sagging felt was now replaced with profanity written in the underlying foam by his jackass friends.
David lived several miles across town. Most of his prep school friends lived in an upscale neighborhood near Episcopal that David passed to and from school each day. When he was in eighth grade, David's parents applied for and received a scholarship that provided him the opportunity to attend Episcopal.
Town South was the local public high school David would have attended under normal circumstances. TSH had ten times the enrollment of Episcopal, which lead to a daily traffic jam in front of the school. David looked forward to being held up at the signal just beyond the campus. He would see some of his old friends from his public school days, which always gave him a comfortable feeling. There was no way to predict, unfortunately, how uncomfortable things were soon to become.
The sound produced by the horn of a '79 Cutlass is like nothing else ever manufactured. David always hesitated to honk because anything within a two mile radius might feel it the recipient. So when the wretched Cutlass inexplicably wailed like a World War II air strike warning, David instantly regretted his decision to chance the after school gridlock, and soon felt suffocated himself.
The incident may not have been so embarrassing had he not waved in the Honda Civic carrying five cheerleaders attempting to exit the lot. David recognized a couple of them from a party at the Russell's lake house over the summer. They politely waived as David scrambled to find confidence. All was lost as soon as the horn awoke. They must have briefly thought he was just trying to get their attention, but after thirty-seconds of solid blowing, it became uncomfortable for everyone involved.
He watched in agony as the traffic light at the south end of the campus changed for a third time before he was able to break free. David considered shutting down the engine, but that could have potentially lead to a situation far more humiliating. For now, staying mobile was all that mattered.
David Allen took pride in his self-control, but as he approached the light at Highland Avenue, he brought with him language that would make a frat guy blush.
He made a sudden decision to cut through Park Heights, a quiet area usually immune to such a commotion. As the Cutlass serenaded the historic district, David's anxiety went elsewhere. The red brick homes with stately white columns reminded him of the sacrifices his parents made. He remembered life before high school to be less complicated. He could not remember ever doubting himself then. Maybe it was because he never sensed the slightest bit of shame from his parents. So where had this sudden shame in himself come from?
Southern Drive was the main street that lead to David's modest subdivision. His house was about a mile and a half from the intersection of Southern and Porter. As he continued on, he sensed empathy from some of the familiar strangers he passed along the way. He noticed a Caprice Classic in his rear view mirror transporting a plastic swimming pool. Instead of tying it down, each of the four passengers had one arm out of their respective windows holding the pool to the roof. David felt immediate community with them. Several cars joined in on the honking as the Cutlass neared the turn at Pilot, David's street. He noticed Edmond, his next door neighbor, laughing uncontrollably while getting gas at the station on the corner of Pilot and Southern. David was laughing, because he knew Edmond had never surrendered more than five dollars into that gas tank.
The honking finally stopped when he put the car in park. His mom was already home, and David drug himself inside, exhausted and numb from what had just happened.
"Was that you honking?" his mom asked when he opened the door from the garage. He knew she wasn't worried, only curious.
"It did that the whole way home."
"Were you embarrassed?"
"It was pretty embarrassing."
David could not have been more at ease at this point.
"Did it start in the parking lot?" she laughed.
"No, it spared me until the log jam in front of Town South."
The lessons from these adolescent wounds were what kept David's mom from feeling sad. Of course she wished they could offer him more, but she recognized that even as a high school senior, he responded to her reactions. As long as she maintained the humility that was missing from so many, so could he.
She paused, then said, "Oh well, these things are temporary. You have to find ways to celebrate them."
"At least it's Friday," David yawned. He dropped his backpack on a kitchen chair and started for his room.
"Are you going to the game?"
"I told some of the guys I would go."
"Seth and them?"
"Yes, ma'am. We'll probably take my car."
Her eyes closed and her hand went to her mouth as she kept a laugh from escaping.
Written by Paul McCallister author of http://www.nojerseysat30.com/ Mistakes We Make: Social, Professional, Spiritual, Style
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