Here’s an oldie but a goodie—and definitely a stranger-than-fiction true story.
The Orange County Fair happened once a year, always in July. It’s New York State’s oldest fair, and I believe it’s still an annual event. Back in the 1960s, it was a big deal that drew tens of thousands of visitors in cars and school buses and church vans that filled several fairground parking lots.
The summer I was eighteen, I was walking through one of the lots on a beautiful sunny day, blue skies, puffy clouds, all that good stuff. I spotted a car that I loved at first sight. A two-tone Pontiac GTO convertible, powder blue and white.
I couldn’t believe what I saw next—the keys were in it.
I have no idea what I was thinking, probably because I wasn’t thinking, but I opened the door and got into the Pontiac. I scrunched down low in the driver’s seat. I loved the car even more once I was nestled inside. It still had that irresistible new-car smell.
I turned on the ignition. Paused for a couple of seconds. Thought about it. Revved the engine. Then I took off out of the Orange County fairgrounds.
This was my car now. I’d “borrowed” that beautiful, sweet-smelling, dangerously fast convertible. A classic joy ride was now in progress.
I was scared but I was also riding on the outer edge of either heaven or hell. I was old-lady careful at first, then I got onto 9W and opened the GTO up. I flicked on the radio and listened to some rock ’n’ roll. Chuck Berry’s “Sweet Little Sixteen” was one of the songs. Not quite Berry’s “Maybellene” but pretty damn good.
I finally partially regained my sanity and brought the Pontiac back to the fairgrounds. As far as I could tell, nobody was out in the lot searching for their missing car. No harm, no foul. But if I had gotten caught on that perfect summer day—big foul, big harm. I might not be writing this book right now.
On the other hand, maybe I would have served time in juvie, then gone on to win the Nobel Prize in Literature. Or at least an Academy Award. Hollywood loves its outlaws.
I don’t think I’ve ever confessed about the joy ride. So this is a first. The crazy thing is, to this day, I don’t know why I did such a dumb thing. Maybe I needed to be a bad boy for an afternoon. If you’re young and stupid and reading this, keep being young, but don’t be stupid.
And, yeah, it really happened.
I can still see that two-tone convertible in my mind’s eye. I can almost smell that new-car leather.