HS Seniors Are Outta Control

It's that nascent and frightful season in Atlanta.  Seniors graduating from high school, on a mission from God in mom or dad's hand-me-down wheels.  These early combat missions, sans supervision and fortified on whatever the current buzz of choice, befell many of us in our quest for the teen angst barrier and on our way to old State U.

I once backed a Camaro into a telephone pole at about 25 miles per hour in a fit of Malt Liquor inflamed pique, high on the alcohol and the testosterone and probably Led Zep's II or Houses of the Holy blaring on the box.  I could've easily paralyzed myself and my pal in the seat next to me.  I'm not sure which is worse about that confession of teen-age indiscretion.   That I wrecked the car essentially on purpose or that I drove a Camaro.  Both probably damn me from the halls of good taste and the U.S. Congress.  It's certainly less shameless than Teddy Kennedy, and I'm usually welcome at Willard's Garage anyhow, which is enough for me.

It all came back to me this afternoon, the acrid tang of adrenalin in the back of my mouth and the fit of giggles on the way home on my afternoon commute-- the site of a tow-truck pulling an 10 or so year old Ford Bronco out of a deep, muddy ditch at the corner of Crestwood and Northside in one of the city's most blue-blood neighborhoods.  It was more of a construction cut than a drainage ditch proper.  But with the massive thunderstorms and flash flooding that swept through the state today it turned into the implement of sucking doom and humiliation to the kid driving into it.  No harm appeared to have been done, but it was obviously one of those moments like Joel Goodson accidentally pushing Dad's Porsche into Lake Michigan in Risky Business.

The obligatory "Senior" slogans were scrawled across the unmuddy upper half of the SUV, probably adding to the confusion at that critical reaction millisecond when Junior needed to decide whether to apex the curve or decelerate instead of braking.  All Junior could see as the Bronco began careening down the steep muddy grade was red mud and LOVETT RULES printed backwards in hot pink.  Actually, I made up the Lovett part.  Could've been Pace, (insert local elite high school name here).  Junior learned fast today, buzz harshed.   

But those weren't private lessons, as the neighbors' yard man called the wrecker and passersby called 911.  And somewhere a car insurance agent licked his pencil and tickler-ed the Habersham file for the higher rate-actuarial proctoscope sure to come on the family account.  So, I laughed the hearty laugh that the cop and the wrecker guy and the neighbors stifled as they watched the truck hauled out of the red muck via hydraulic winch.  I laughed the untrammeled laugh of a man who plans on driving our Little Rosebud everywhere until she's out of the house anyways.  You'll get an insurance card on my policy when you drag it from my cold dead hands.

Have any stupid teenage confessions to lay out on rankinblog today?

Comments

[sugarmama]

When I was 15 my friends and I went joyriding a few times when the folks were gone, but we fortunately didn't have any accidents. Didn't get busted by the folks, either.

I think parenting a teenager must be very, very nervewracking. They are so clueless and hormonal.

[Vermont Neighbor]

High school: 1 Me: 0