The Lizzie

God. Can you believe this shit? The world is still going to hell in a hand basket, our economy is in the tank, the media is still chock-full of biased bastards, and this damn Presidential gladiator competition still isn't over.

But. You know what? I don't freaking care.

I really don't. At least not this second. Right now, I want to remember. I want to think about funny things that happened to me before I knew what a 401K was, before I cared about politics, before talk radio got my panties in a twist, before I had the right to vote.

Which brings me to The Lizzie.

When I was fourteen, one of my closest friends was a feisty thirteen year old from Tulsa. Her name was Aim. Aim's grandparents were big-time members of my family's fucked-up church. Her grandpa was the District Superintendent of our church's district in rural Oklahoma, which basically means he was a God. He was a kind-hearted fellow, very distinguished with his towering stature and silver-gray hair. He was a gentle giant, married to a spunky little midget of a lady. Aim's grandma was a hoot! I loved her grandfolks as if they were my own. During the summer, my parents sometimes drove me to Henryetta, OK, and I hunkered down for a long weekend at Aim's grandparents' home.

Now, her Gramps was in demand as the leader of our fair church district. He had a Doctorate of Religion, and was, therefore, Very Important. Dr. Gramps and Gram were always flitting about the parched Oklahoma landscape, delivering goodwill and Jesus to anyone that would listen. This meant that Aim and I, two very naughty teenagers, were left alone on occasion.

Gram's prized possession was a 1970s heavy metal two door sports car, resplendent in shimmering bronzed dookie-brown, with that pleather seating that used to get so hot in the Oklahoma summertime that skin on your legs would rip off when you plopped down on the seat and scooched across to make room for other riders. This beloved vehicle was dubbed The Lizzie. The Lizzie proudly occupied a back corner of Dr. Gramps and Gram's driveway, where the overhanging black oak trees shaded her from the beating sun.

One sweltering weekend, Dr. Gramps and Gram putted off in their early 80s mammoth white Lincoln Towncar on some do-gooder mission, after issuing strict instructions to Aim and me to be good and stay in the house, don't answer the door, don't talk to strangers, and don't eat too much sugar! Aim and I fixed our hair, primped and pouted in the giant mirror in Gram's bathroom, meticulously shaved our legs, then slapped Dr. Gramps' pungent Aqua Velva all over our limbs (Yeeee-ooooowwwww! Don't try that one at home, readers) then stared at each other in sheer boredom.

"I know!" Aim said with a sly grin. "Let's drive The Lizzie!" I choked on my soda and sputtered, "Aim! You're THIRTEEN. I've never driven before, plus, I'm only fourteen." Aim just smirked and went to get Gram's keys.

Apparently, Gram had a few skeletons in her closet. Unbeknownst to Dr. Gramps, she'd let Aim drive The Lizzie on the backroads of Henryetta since Aim was a whopping twelve years old. "You swear you know how to drive?" I pounded Aim. Her answer was to pump the pedal and fire up Lizzie's engine.

What's a girl to do?

That day still makes me smile. Talk about freedom! Suddenly, we had wheels, baby. We sailed to McDonalds on the main drag and loaded up on sundaes and fried cherry pies. We bounced up and down the "mountain" of Henryetta. In the ultimate dare, we flounced past Dr. Gramps and Gram's church. Unfortunately, a swarm of church folk poured out the front door as we inched past.

"CRAP!" Aim and I screamed. We stared at each other's eyeballs in horror for a split second. We were SO busted. Then, we both ducked below The Lizzie's windows. To this day, I wonder what went through those church people's heads as they witnessed an unmanned poop-brown 1970s Chevelle glide by the church like a ghost car.

Aim and I were giddy with relief. We didn't get caught. Of course, now we had a new game. Any time we passed a group of people on the side of the road, we'd slide down The Lizzie's sauna-like seats and disappear. The Lizzie didn't have air-conditioning, so the open windows allowed us to hear all of the "Did you see that?" and "Hey! Nobody's drivin' that car!" comments.

Heh.

Aim let me drive awhile. The Lizzie sort of floated. That's the best way I can describe it - there were no power brakes or power steering in that car. You really had to mind your Ps and Qs or you'd end up in a ditch.

Finally, we tired of our phantom-car antics and decided to head back to the homestead. Then, we looked at the gas gauge. Thus commenced my first lesson in estimations. We had to guess how much gas we'd burned, and how to get the tank back to 3/4 full. After The Lizzie burst back to life, we realized we'd overrun the 3/4 mark a tad. Holy shit! Dr. Gramps and Gram were due back soon! Aim gunned it and we burned gas fumes up and down residential streets until the clock told us it was crunch time.

We slid The Lizzie back into place, just like before. The cooling engine popped and sizzled a bit. Aim and I clenched our teeth and hoped for the best. We crept back inside the house and nonchalantly turned on the TV.

Dr. Gramps and Gram arrived home shortly. Gram noticed we were a bit too composed. She quizzed us on the activities of the day. Aim and I stuck to our story. We had laid out in the sun, drank some sodas, had a snack, put on makeup, watched TV, you know, normal stuff. All the while, we hoped and prayed that Gram wouldn't venture out to check on The Lizzie. As long as the engine was cool and Gram didn't recall exactly how much gas was in the tank, we were home free.

Strangely enough, we didn't get caught. Dr. Gramps and Gram trusted their angelic granddaughter and her saintly friend. A few years later, Aim and I recounted the story to a group at church camp, amidst much giggling and gasping. Everyone pretty much assumed we were going to hell anyway, so I guess it wasn't too shocking that we lied to a minister and his wife.

Aim and I eventually parted ways. I think it had something to do with the fact that she kept asking my boyfriends out on dates. Call me crazy, but that just ain't right. Many years later, Gram called my mom and begged her to ask me to write Aim a letter. Gram was worried about Aim's soul. Begrudgingly, I dug out an old letter of Aim's, wherein she proclaimed I was her best friend on the face of the earth, and I sent it to her with a note, simply asking . . . what happened? (Knowing full well what happened. Hello? Slut anyone?)

I never heard back from her.

I dunno where Aim is today. I hope she's OK. Maybe, every now and then, she looks back fondly on our day in The Lizzie. No matter what happened, no matter how shitty our world is today, driving The Lizzie is a great memory and no one can take it away from us.

So there! Take that, fucked up world! Hi-YAH!