You haven’t experienced the post-apocalyptic genius that is Turbo Kid until you’ve seen it at the drive-in from the back of your dad’s Prius on a sweltering summer’s night. Yeah, we’re parked at the very rear of the lot, and yeah, the humidity made us sweaty and disgusting the very instant we turned off the car and rolled down the windows, but on the bright side, perspiring profusely means we don’t have to waste time maintaining our sheens. And at least I’m out and actually doing something on a Saturday night.
“This movie was terrible when it was on Netflix, and it’s terrible now,” Ernie grunts. The evening’s self-proclaimed/exclaimed “Soundmaster,” he shifts Dad’s boombox (tuned to Kaufman Drive-In’s FM station) on his lap, adjusts his bath towel. “Why are we even here?”
“Do you mean here at the drive-in,” I murmur, “or life in general?”
“The drive-in, Brainiac.”
“I told you I’d never been to a drive-in movie theater before, and that my dad was taking me, and you begged to come along.”
“Bruh, I didn’t beg.”
“Seriously. This movie sucks.”
“We’re only five minutes in.”
“Five minutes is all a real man needs to tell if a movie’s shit or not.”
I think for a sec. “Even a Quentin Tarantino movie?”
“Just because his opening scenes are thirty minutes long doesn’t mean he’s exempt.”
“Dude, you’ve grown pessimistic in your old age.”
“Get off my lawn, junior.”
Dad, reclined in the driver’s seat, and evidently enjoying the movie more than I’d expected, raises his hand and says, “Hey, boys. Voices down, volume up, please.”
Ernie frowns, looks like he wants to flick him off—
“Ernie,” I hiss.
—turns up the boombox a notch.
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