Do You Believe Me Now?

I’m driving a 1957 red and white Nash Metropolitan my dad gave me a few months ago. For those of you not familiar with a Metropolitan, it is a very small two-door sedan. The front seat snugly holds the driver and one passenger; the backseat holds, perhaps, a dog. A small dog. I don’t have a dog, so the backseat holds my purse. And Niki’s purse, because she is in the passenger seat, and we are cruising Woodward Avenue. It’s not a catechism night, in answer to your inquiring minds. I might also note that this car is not known for its speed, and it has very slow pick-up in all gears. If I handle the clutch and accelerator with great finesse, the tires almost squeal, but so far only in reverse.

Man, it’s a great Saturday night! The weather is balmy, and all the cruisers have their windows rolled down, as we do, which makes it easy to shout at the guys or the gals in the next lane. There is a car full of guys who wave and yell at us; we look over at them. Ugh! They are greasers! Wearing black leather jackets, their hair slicked with V05 hair cream. Not our type. Niki and I turn up our noses, and I change lanes, ignoring their advances toward us.

They edge up on us again, shouting to get our attention, and out of pure irritation and a we-are-better-than-you attitude, Niki and I decide to flip them the bird. We count: 1, 2, 3, FLIP! And complete the act together.

Whoa, do we get a reaction! These guys are giving us all sorts of hand signals that we can’t decipher, yelling words that we can decipher—and which I am not going to repeat in this writing. Believe me when I say these guys are really pissed off. I change lanes again and pick up speed but to no avail; their car is faster than mine. We approach a red traffic light, and I have no choice but to put on the brakes and stop the car. The out of control guys are directly behind us. As soon as we stop, they stop and get out of their car. Niki and I turn our heads to look out the rear window. We see four greasy-looking guys wearing black leather and chains, with their fists in the air rushing toward our car!

We’re terrified! We scream! My hand moves the gearshift as I pop the clutch and stomp on the accelerator (do I hear the tires squeal?). I think the light is still red, but we can’t wait for it to change. All I can think about is the safety of home and getting far away from these thugs.

In no time, they are in their car and following right behind us. Niki and I don’t look back; we are too afraid of what we might see.

I pull in my driveway, turn off the car, and step on the emergency brake. The porch light is shining, but no lights are on in the house. We run up to it, and I unlock the door with my key, enter, and lock the door behind us.

The living room is dark and empty. Is everyone in bed already? I hurry down the hallway to my parents’ bedroom and barge in. Startled, my dad jumps out of bed. He’s naked, but I avert my eyes and try to take no notice.

“Dad, Dad, help us! These scary creeps were chasing us down Woodward, and they have black leather jackets and chains, and they are going to hurt us, and they followed us home …” as he puts on his pants running out of the bedroom down the hallway through the living room to the front door with me and my mom trailing behind … “just because Niki and I flipped them the bird ’cause they were bugging us …”and he unlocks and opens the door as my mother exclaims, “Bonnie Jean!”