Mustang Memories

Just before I turned 16 my father bought this 1967 Mustang for me to drive. Back then, though it wasn't yet considered a classic, it was a pretty cool set of wheels. It was everything to me; it represented endless possibilities and it was the reason I was glad to get out of bed in the morning. It was my first taste of freedom, my ticket to anywhere, at least anywhere in Los Angeles. I'll never forget the day I got my license or the feeling I had when backing out of the driveway for the first time. It was like leaving my family and all my teenage cares behind. After dark, when I returned home, I was exhausted and shaking and the odometer revealed all: Day one out of the gate and I had driven 200 miles.

I slept in my bed, ate breakfast in the kitchen, I brushed my teeth in the bathroom, but I lived in that car. I even gave her a name. Frankie. Driving her I played music non-stop, I picked up friends and drove everywhere -rock concerts, the Hollywood Hills, the beach. Once, when returning from Malibu, I pulled up to a stoplight on Sunset Boulevard. In the car beside me was, by teenage girl standards, the hottest guy who ever lived. He looked at me and mouthed the words, “You’re beautiful.” I sat there speechless, and when the light turned green and he took off, I looked at myself in the mirror. My hair was a wind-blown mop, my eyes were bloodshot, and my face was burnt red from the sun, but I felt like Cinderella sitting in her magic coach, and no clock striking twelve could ever take that away.