Le Matos’ epic synths thunder in my ears as the Kid bikes to Bagu’s bar, and I’m thinking to myself, how could anyone not like Turbo Kid? How could anyone not be thrilled by the novelty of Kaufman’s crowdsourcing a bunch of Tesla batteries to power up their drive-in for ninety minutes every weekend? I gaze out the passenger window. A grid of neatly-organized, new-normaled, socially-distanced cars stretches into the night. It’s inspiring at first. Not so much when, from what I can make out through their rapidly-fogging-up windows (which shouldn’t be possible in this weather), I realize the couple in the car next to us aren’t even watching the movie, but are instead going at each other like there’s no tomorrow, loincloths abandoned, limbs flailing, lips smacking, car rocking to a certain, steady rhythm, and oh, crap, is that the very early beginnings of a boner plumping between my legs—?
Someone bangs on Dad’s door—the carhop gal who’d taken our order earlier has returned with our food. “Okay,” she announces loudly and nasally, “I got three large popcorns, two vegan sweet potato nachos, two bottles of water, and a family-sized Diet Dr. Pepper.”
“That’s us,” Dad acknowledges, and passes one of the nachos and a water to me, the popcorn and Dr. Pepper to Ernie.
“There you go, kids,” the carhop gal coos. “It’s gonna be a hell of a show!” She disappears into the night.
“Finally, something to eat!” Ernie pops the lid off one of his cartons—
His popcorn’s glowing.
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