The Night the Little Blue Datsun died

 The Night the Little Blue Datsun died

    February of 1976 was the best ot times and it was the fucking worst of times. My personal life was bouncing from comedy to tragedy while Greg and Bobcat settled into the bachelor life at Saturn street. I was hovering above rock bottom, having taken a job with my father at the Coliseum and Arena Ticket Service that was tolerable until a very tall man came in and put a pistol to my head during his robbery. With an already wounded psyche I was trying to grab ahold of something to heal and the best I could do was self-medication and good friends. To recount, I had been dumped by my girlfriend, my first cat, Cazar was run over in the street, I was fired from UCLA and I lost my apartment. Yet, life went on as my little sister was getting married and the reception seemed like a great place to let loose and forget about the cares of my twenty-eighth year. This was also a time of the great see-saw of friendship between Greg and Myself. In the beginning I visited him on McNerney, then he visited me on Seminole, then I visited him on Saturn street, then he visited me at Club Virginia, then I visited him at Tremaine, then he visited me with Lissy at Holly Knoll, then I visited him on Francis to the final acts. Christine's reception was all we expected with lots of drinking and even dancing that featured an open bar and a rock band. Everyone was there with the Saturn street fellas  right in the thick of it. When the newlyweds left and the reception thinned, the word was the party would continue at the apartment of my brother's colorful pal Norman Noggle. Greg was to follow me after we stopped at Morry's of Naples for fine wines to bring to the party-party. These sport-drinking activities were to take place in slightly known Whittier that was laid out with one-way streets unknown to us. So, with directions I was given I am buzzing down a thoroughfare in Whittier not realizing I am going the wrong way on a one-way street. To make matters worse, the cross streets are set up to watch for traffic heading south and we are speeding drunkenly heading north. I am watching my rear-view to make sure I did not lose Greg when there was some kerfuffle behind me and his lights disappeared. I pull over and just then realize by seeing traffic that I was going the wrong way. I make a U-turn and head back where three blocks away Greg's little blue Datsun has been T-boned and is a total mess. To make matters way worse, the wine bottles purchased at Morry's have broken, soaking the interior and occupants  with wine-stink. Not what you want investigating cops to smell.  I approached the car  and see a stunned Bobcat dazed in the passenger seat not realizing what has happened. I find the Cat's glasses about twenty feet away on the asphalt and Greg is alert but stunned. The much loved Datsun is done for but the lads are unhurt. I am so drunk I suggest they leave the car and go on with me to the party but they wait for a tow-truck and call it a pretty fucked up day. The Datsun, purchased from Al Siegel that drove across the USA twice was now just a part of Greg Sheehy history thanks to my drunk-ass stipidity.