By this time my friend had perfected standing neutral-drops to light up the PM’s tires. At a stop sign, while he was revving for his next neutral-drop-o-fire, I decided to help by jamming the accelerator to the floorboard as he dropped into gear. This was just too much for the PM. Instead of powering the car forward, the transmission now made noises like a group of Maraca and Güiro playing Cubans moved under the hood. Not to have our rock-and-roll evening ruined (or my getting laid), we looked at each other saying “Ruh-roh,” pushed the rental into the parking lot at a small park, and piled into the other car to party-on.

Later we went back to the beach house. My friend took a seat at the piano and I grabbed a guitar for an improv jam. After a while I noticed the Hottie was absent as was the friend of her friend’s boyfriend (he was kind of a scrawny annoyance who buzzed around all night for attention from the Hottie). I went upstairs to take a piss and found, lo and behold, she was in bed with the scrawny winged-insect sitting next to her. I was shocked and couldn’t reconcile this during my piss. Obviously we were hot for each other. There was even mashing and light groping at the bar. No way had I miscalculated I thought, but there she was. I went downstairs and told my friend I had to go right away (it was like 3AM and we were stupid at that point). Our hostess was more confused than my friend by our hasty departure. Outside I recounted the scenario. He blew up, telling me this was total bullshit and I couldn’t just leave without reconciliation. It was clear the insect moved on my girl, and that just wasn’t right. After he fired me up like an over zealous pop-warner football coach-dad, I agreed. When our hostess answered the door, my friend unleashed unprovoked verbal assaults while I quickly passed upstairs. By now the guy had his shirt off and was cuddling the Hottie. Through my severe impairment I realized the Hottie was passed-out, and the insect was getting ready to ride the dead horse. This snapped me. I grabbed the insect by his hair, lifted him off the bed, and released a snappy right to his nose. He tumbled to the floor crying “What’d you do that for?” while bleeding profusely on the white shag. I jumped on top of him, but he didn’t resist or give any fight (being a scrawny insect and all I suppose). Realizing the scene was beat, I jumped up and ran downstairs and to the beach with my friend. With no car or hope of a taxi, we jogged the beach to Hermosa where we were staying, filled with the sweet moral righteousness of victory.

After waking in the afternoon we went to survey damage to the PM. We discovered each window, including the windshield, shattered into small pieces (insecta revenga). Seeing the empty trunk, we realized we left our suitcases inside the beach house. The girls agreed to meet us with our bags only at the Redondo police station. Both were extremely pissed-off and wary, not understanding that punching the insect was the only response appropriate to dead-horse jockeying. Later while we watched the windowless, transmissionless PM get winched onto a flatbed, we became sickened with our certain expulsion from school, having used University funds to destroy a brand new Buick on this barely appropriate boondoggle. Expecting our demise to begin with the inquisition at the Budget return desk, we rehearsed endlessly while riding the bus to the airport, trying to run every possible outcome; how the car was vandalized, how the transmission was making noises before it dropped out, etc. For no explainable reason other than VAN HOLIDAY, the rental car clerk apologized for our inconvenience and gave us drink coupons to enjoy on our return flight home. Slack-jawed, we somehow skirted all responsibility for a reckless rock star partying binge.

VIVA EL VAN HOLIDAY!