Belly-up Beetle


Curtis drove the Volkswagen, 1969 vintage Beetle. Smoking George, his wing man, brought the weed. They’d met their dates at a party. Stacy and Camille went to San Leandro High. Curtis and George went to Castro Valley.
Curtis liked Camille. George got Stacy. They all partied at a friend of a friend’s house in Oakland until 2:00 a.m., and the girls said they needed to go home. Curtis was at the wheel and decided to take the back roads since he was drunk, stoned, and under-aged. He used Redwood Road in the hills between Lake Chabot and Oakland, near the rifle range and the Boy Scout camp.
There was a dirt turnout. He thought he could impress Camille by spinning doughnuts. Wasn’t that a good idea? George was feeling it, too, the girls were squealing, and all was right with the world. Until it wasn’t. Curtis gave it too much gas and flipped the VW on its roof.
At 3:00.a.m.
In the woods.
It was a miracle that no one was hurt. But the girls were worried about getting into trouble. How would they all get home?
Super strength? Adrenaline? Eighteen-year-old muscles? The foursome was able to flip the car back on its wheels. The door wouldn’t stay shut now that the top was smashed in. Smoking George held it closed while Curtis drove the girls home, who by the way, said NEVER to call them again.
Curtis couldn’t take his car home with a smashed-in roof, so he parked it on a side street and told his parents he’d sold it to a friend. He eventually did sell it to a guy for $400 who turned it into a dune buggy.
That car had some bad juju. His dad had bought it from a guy whose son had committed suicide in it. Curtis learned his lesson. No more pot. No more drinking and driving. And no more bad-vibe slug bugs.
On the other hand, Curtis and his friends survived the accident, so maybe there had been a guardian angel on board all along.

Couldda Wouldda Shouldda
If Curtis would’ve married Camille, they would’ve partied until she got pregnant with twins. Then Curtis would’ve given up his drinking ways to go to school and become a chiropractor. When his daughters were old enough to date, Curtis would interrogate each boy and get a copy of his driver’s license.

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