RichardDaub.com, February 2024

Moments before the start of fourth period English class—

“I like your Rabbit,” Jacqui said to Carl, referring to his rusted, brick-red 1978 Volkswagen.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I want you to take me for a ride in it.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Are you gonna cruise Spit Lot Friday night?” she asked, referring to the parking lot of the Spit nightclub in Levittown, where Nassau County high school students did their cruising.

“Uh, maybe?”

“I’m gonna be there Friday night. You better be there with the Rabbit.”

*     *     *

Spit, a nightclub and music venue also known as Uncle Sam’s, was best known for hosting Madonna’s early gigs before she became famous. In 1985, when the drinking age changed from 19 to 21, the parking lot became more popular than the club itself, a veritable “meat market” attracting cheeseballs from all over with their bass-thumping Monte Carlos, Cougars, Olds 98s, Camaros, and Grands Prix—1990 Nassau County’s version of American Graffiti, one of Long Island’s crown jewels of cruising alongside Suffolk’s Deer Park Avenue, Brooklyn’s 86^th Street, and Queens’ Francis Lewis Boulevard.

*     *     *

Friday afternoon—

Carl parked the Rabbit in front of his friend Pete’s house. His parents were still at work, and their friend, Jim, was seated on the couch flipping through the channels.

Both laughed when Carl suggested they take the Rabbit up to Spit Lot.

“You’ll scare the chicks away in that piece of shit,” Pete laughed.

“Well, Jacqui wants a ride in it and said I’d better bring it tonight,” Carl bragged.

“She said that?” Jim asked.

“Yep. I even stopped at Auto Barn on the way over here and bought Turtle Wax and pine air fresheners—”

Pete and Jim laughed, but neither had cars of their own, and none of them had ever been to Spit Lot. So, after the laughter subsided, they headed outside and waxed the Rabbit, bringing back some of the faded brick red, but also highlighting the scars of rust, particularly around the windshield. They also vacuumed the interior, including the mat that was covering the large, rust-eaten hole in the floor on the rear passenger side, and hung the Forest Pine air freshener tree from the rearview mirror.

When the Rabbit was ready, Carl and Jim went home to take showers and eat dinner, then reconvened at Pete’s.

*     *     *

It was late September, still summer warm, teenage lust swirling over Hempstead Turnpike. The lot was crowded and many weren’t even trying to get into the loop, instead parking on a side street and walking over to hang out in “The Middle”—the two long rows of parking spaces that the cruisers drove around, where, like at a racetrack, the serious partying was going on, people swigging from cans and bottles, smoking joints and cigarettes, and a few lucky ones engaged in back seat sex.

Two blocks away, Carl pulled the Rabbit into the line of cars waiting to get into the lot, Public Enemy’s Fear of a Black Planet—”Welcome to the Terrordome”—pumping through a sound system worth three times the vehicle, subwoofer in the hatchback, the little car vibrating as if about to blow off the doors and shatter the glass.

Pete was wearing his usual purple Los Angeles Lakers cap with yellow lettering. Jim had on his usual black Chicago Bulls cap with red lettering. Carl, though, before his stop at Auto Barn, had swung by the mall and purchased a phresh red Philadelphia Phillies cap and a light blue Maui and Sons t-shirt to top off his black Levi’s and black Nike Airs with white Swoosh.

They mostly idled for ten minutes and had only moved two car-lengths.

“Let’s just go fuckin’ park,” Pete said for the third time.

“No,” Carl said. “Jacqui wants a ride in the Rabbit.”

“She still can,” Jim said. “You can meet her in The Middle, then take her out to the parked car and drive her around the block.”

“Not the same,” Carl said.

“He’s got pussy on the brain,” Pete said. “I’m getting out.”

“Me too,” Jim said.

They got out and walked towards the lot.

Twenty minutes later, Carl finally made it into the lot and was next in line to join the loop. He switched tapes in the deck to It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back—”Bring the Noise”—then waited for an opening and eventually squeezed in ahead of a black Monte Carlo.

The Rabbit’s windows were rolled down and he started hearing comments and laughter from The Middle, but he paid them no mind as he rolled slowly passed, scanning the crowd, until finally spotting Jacqui with a couple of her friends.

“Oh my God, it’s Carl!” she exclaimed, hurrying over to the Rabbit, leaving one of her friends to wonder aloud, “Like, oh my God, does she, like, know that loser in the toy car?”

Jacqui paid them no mind and got in on the passenger side.

“Cool stereo,” she said, snapping her wild strawberry Bubblicious. “Can I put on Hot 97?”

“Sure,” Carl said, eyes wide. She looked hotter than ever and more scantily dressed than at school, showing some serious cleavage.

The Monte Carlo behind him honked. Carl took his foot off the brake and the Rabbit moved a few inches, then stalled. Every red and orange light on the dashboard illuminated.

“What happened?” Jacqui asked.

“It stalled. Don’t worry, this happened before. We just need to wait a couple of minutes for the starter to cool off.”

The Monte Carlo honked again. Carl turned the ignition a couple of times, but there was only a clicking noise, and the engine didn’t turn.

“Maybe I should get out,” Jacqui said.

“Wait, hold on,” Carl said, turning the ignition again.

“I gotta get back to my friends,” she said.

Before he could say anything else, she was out of the car and had left the door open.

“Why did you, like, get in the little car with that loser?” he heard one of her friends ask.

Behind him, more cars were honking. Carl turned the ignition, but, again, only clicking.

Then he heard someone say to put it into neutral. In the rearview mirror, he saw Pete and Jim getting ready to push.

He shifted and they pushed the car out of the loop and off to the side.

Carl turned the ignition. Clicking.

“When this happened before,” he said, “I usually just had to wait a little while, and then it would start again.”

“How long did you wait last time?”

“I don’t know. About two hours, maybe.”

“Two fuckin’ hours?”

“Maybe it’ll be sooner.”

An hour went by and it still wouldn’t start. Nobody wanted to call their parents, but they probably didn’t have enough money for a cab that would get them all the way back to Massapequa.

Finally, just before midnight, Carl turned the ignition, and this time it started. The crowds had thinned by now and he managed to maneuver out of the lot to Hempstead Turnpike, then to Sunrise Highway and the desolate, amber-lit thoroughfares of Massapequa, where there were a few good parking lots, but nowhere to cruise. ▪