Let's All Go to the Drive-In...

Since the onset of the Covid slaughter, there have been many things I miss, most of them I took for granted. I suppose I always thought I'd be able to dine out, hang with a pal, and go to the movies on an instant whim. (Dumb, dumb, dumb, sooooo stupidly naive, dumb, dumb...) Yeah, there are temporary patches: take-out, zoom calls, and streaming (boy, have we been streaming a mean streak!), but it's just not the same.

Then on a fine recent evening, my daughter sent me an urgent text: "Dad! Come on down Saturday night and we'll go to the drive-in!"

Blink. Blinkety-blink-blink-blink. Then... Oh, my stars and garters! Fireworks! Jubilation! Twenty-six trombones and...whatever that stupid song is that now I can't get out of my mind!

My daughter had found a truly creative work-around to my movie going withdrawl.There are only a handful of drive-ins left in the country and one of them happens to be in my daughter's small (oh, so very small) town. It's a town where a man's merit is measured by the size of his pick-em-up truck and women are encouraged to be brassy and sassy (just as long as they don't brass and sass their Man). Also, for whatever reason, an independent study I've conducted found that approximately 43% of the female population is named Barbie. Not Barb or Barbara. Barbie. And they're grown women. Don't ask me why.

Anyway, I have fond memories of going to the drive-in when I first started driving. Mainly because it was a cheap night out with even cheaper beer and you got to see 3, count 'em, 3 movies! It was a magical place where you couldn't even see the screen and there were so many distractions that movie-viewing wasn't even the main reason to be there.

So...with great expectations and high hopes, we loaded up the cooler and headed for the Starlight drive-in.

Man. My fond memories must've been based purely on nostalgia.

We came early, wanting to stake out a good spot. The problem was "Jeep-O-Rama" took place earlier in the day on the drive-in lot and most of the "jeepers" decided to stay on. First, we tried the closest spot we found, but my daughter got creeped out having two open jeeps flanking us, rowdy and dumb drunk guys leering down at her on both sides. We kept moving until we settled into a "safe-spot." On one side was a mother and daughter duo that we felt a kinship to and the other was some ol' grizzled fart, just cussin' up a storm in his station wagon. We were home.

We were also right behind the concession stand/bathrooms/projection booth. (Although calling it a "projection booth" doesn't seem quite right as it's all computerized now, instead of having the traditionally hammered sot behind the projector who could never be bothered to keep the film in focus.)

The concession building was painted a stomach-turning nauseous green, a color I haven't seen since the sixties (pre-mod era, natch). Some distracting blonde in a very tiny shirt and shorts that weren't much more than a thong continued to walk to the trash can, carrying a dainty piece of trash each visit. And during each visit, she'd look around to see if anyone was noticing her (and how could you help but NOT notice her). She made at least a dozen trips, when one would've sufficed.

Just like the magic of the drive-in, my daughter's town is a magical place, a fantastical area where Covid doesn't exist. Or so the townsfolk would like to believe. Covid's right up there with snipe hunts, Santy Claus, and honest politicians. No one was masked. Now, that was part of the allure for me of going back to the drive-in: a safe environment. But as my bladder grew fuller, I became more worried as I'd be the only one masking up when I went to the bathroom.

But mask up I did and off I went, stumbling over the rise and falls of graveled bumps, seeking out the bathroom in the dark. Once I reached my destination (the lights were burnt out, so I oscillated between men and womens until a woman finally came out of one door), and with a great deal of trepidation, I entered the Bathroom of Doom.

Now, this REALLY took me back. Even masked up, the overpowering stench nearly floored me. Waste of all three sorts (figure it out) decorated the floor. An army of flies swarmed me, a B-horror movie victim. An open toilet, no stall, and clearly people were more interested in using it as long-distance practice then getting close to it (and I couldn't blame them). And the urinal trough (something I thought went out of style with leisure suits) was an appalling mess. Needless to say, there wasn't any soap or paper towels, so I did my business and got out fast before Big Brutus came in and beat my ass for wearing a mask.

Finding my way back to the car wasn't easy. After the sickeningly yellow light of the bathroom, I came out into darkness, dizzy and disoriented, an uneasy feeling that all of the occupants in the trucks and jeeps facing me were watching me. And they probably were. After stumbling way off course, I finally made it back to our car. Whew.

The first movie ended and rolled immediately into the next flick. Rip-off! Back in the day, part of the fun of the drive-in was the intermission show and previews, but I guess Mr. and Mrs. Starlight wanted to get to bed. We didn't stick around and got the hell out of there.

What were the movies? Didn't matter, nor did I pay much attention as there was too much going on everywhere else. I'm glad to have had the experience, but I don't know that I'll go back again (like eating Rocky Mountain Oysters). I'm thinking my love for the drive-in was purely nostalgic after all.

While on the topic of nostalgia, come on down and visit Peculiar County, a mighty nostalgic tale of growing up in the '60's in a small Kansas town. Albeit with ghosts, murderers, things that fly in the night, witches, and other delights. It's absolutely groovy!