. . .and the bus travels with all the speed of lard.

You’re a nervous wreck. Can’t hold a pencil.

You have places to go – people to see – things to do.

Big things – important things – life altering things.

But you’re stuck in class – last period  – listening to a cure for insomnia.

Not today – today you are throbbing.

Summer vacation starts in ten minutes and time crawls by on Quaaludes.

They don’t make time this slow.

You’re packed – you’re ready – you’re waiting.

Road trip – Las Vegas – you and your buddies. Six of you.

Saving since September – bagging groceries and hearing complaints.

Fake i.d. and trying to grow a mustache – loaded down with cash.

Buying a car and renting love and slot machines with the money left over.

You heard it’s impossible to get in trouble.

First, gotta get to the used car lot – had your eye on it since April – 

1968 Austin America – it’s in cherry condition – first year they came out.

Blaupunkt FM radio.

They close at six – Two hours to get there. Bus on time if you’re lucky.

Way out in the valley. Sepulveda Pass and crossing your fingers there’s no accidents.

Buy the car – pick everybody up and freedom.

That’s the plan.

Three o’clock finally. Jump out of your desk and fly out the classroom before the bell stops.

Get to the bus stop. First one there.

Bus is empty – bus not moving.

Driver is waiting for the others to show up.

But . . . but . . .

Nothing doing.

There went THAT forty-five minutes.

Bus eventually fills and pulls away from the curb.

You could walk there faster.

By the time you get to Ace Used Cars the sun had already set for an hour.

Only one left is the body and fender guy, busy making a beat up Corvair look pretty.

He tells you to come back on Saturday.

You drop to your knees and start begging.

Looking truly uncomfortable, he agrees to sell you the car.

You hand him the cash – he hands you the keys.

You are happy – you are thrilled.

You are on the San Diego Freeway heading over the Sepulveda Pass when the engine light comes on.

First the engine light and then the temperature gauge – both start glowing and blinking red.

You catch a whiff of overheated radiator and a stream of liquid leaking behind.

Cars pass you. Drivers and passengers yell and point. It’s not looking good.

You try flooring the accelerator and the car coughs, shudders and goes dead just as you pull off to the side of the Freeway. You turn off the radio.

Oh swell. Dead car – won’t budge an inch.

After an hour of sitting in the drivers seat questioning life, a Highway Patrol Cruiser  pulls up, flashing lights.

CHP tells you a tow-truck will come by “at some point” and then offers his worldly advice – get your money back and buy something else – Austin Americans are well known junk.

With that, he turns and leaves.

The best you can do is sit and wait – be pissed and be grateful it didn’t happen in the middle of the desert on the way to Las Vegas.

In the meantime you turn on the radio and the car fills up with the sound of KMET, blissfully unaware your world just fell down a flight of stairs.

And Summer hasn’t even started yet.

Here’s a blast of Jim Ladd at KMET from June 19, 1977.