From 2003-2004, I was enrolled in an elite, high class auto society. There were only three members, each of whom kept meticulous care of his or her vehicle. We would meet maybe two or three times a year, in a secluded corner of a Wal-Mart parking lot, blasting Billy Squire or DLR-era Van Halen.
Those were the glorious, youthful days of my '88 Ford Thunderbird.
Those were the days of the Eighties Car Club.
President Dave Jagielski has [and still does have] a 1985 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. A nice, silver sedan with no visible rust and 4 original hubcaps.
My t-bird had a few pockmarks, blemishes, straight-up holes.
Amy's '87 Plymouth mini-van was held together by willpower alone, with woodpanel contact tape peeling off under its own volition. The replacement hubcaps she'd bought from Wal-Mart would break free and fly off at dangerous velocities. Neither the gas gauge nor the speedometer worked.
Since then, my car has been wrecked and Amy purchased a new ride, this one a '97 Grand Am. We were both forced to leave the club.
But I have recently come into an '87 Chevrolet Celebrity, thus gaining readmittance into the auto club. My friend Justin has also become an honorary member, despite the fact that his Cutlass Cruiser wagon is from '92. At this stage in the game, we're willing to make exceptions--his Oldsmobile still carries on the '80s boxy aesthetic, and it runs like a piece of shit.
Soon we'll be hitting up parking lots again, looking retro-trendy and mobile.