San Francisco, Pier 39. In the late 1980s, as a junior in high school living in the suburbs of Dublin, California, this was the place to be. The things you saw downtown were edgy. Skinheads. Mohawks. Different colored hair. Piercings, similar to the ones you see today, were the norm. Ripped jeans. Leather jackets. Sunglasses, mostly Ray-Ban wayfarers, were worn by the cool people. Everyone else wore regular sunglasses. None of that mattered because you were there to watch the people. Not to be watched. And I was one of the ones watching everyone else. I could hide comfortably in the background, not one person wise to my existence. It’s not a fun place for an extrovert. But it was high school, and I wasn’t liked. At least not that I was aware of.

               I never went to the city by myself. I took my two best friends, Rich and Edward. No one called him Edward. He was known as T.J. Why? I don’t think anyone who’s still living actually knows why. In high school, it didn’t matter. Why would it matter now?

               T.J drove a crème colored 1969 Volkswagen Bug. Riding it in was like having your insides rattled to death. The hour-long drive to the city made us thankful to be out of the car. We only did that once. We decided that Rich’s Ford Bronco II made more sense. It was a quieter ride, had a better sound system, and fit us more comfortably than the bug. T.J. resented us because he went out of his way to quiet the ride, installed a thumping stereo system, and made the back seat wider to fit one more person in style. Yeah, the money and time he spent on the bug was a bit overdone, but we were still taking the Bronco.

               “I hate you guys,” T.J. muttered, riding shotgun. I figured it was safer than letting him ride in the back. He had a tendency to lose his temper. “So, can I at least pick the music?”

               “Grounded?” T.J. complained. “What am I? Five?”

               I laughed from the backseat. I loved sitting in the back. I could see everything and ignore the things I wanted to. Plus, from back here, the music was loud. That was something I could get behind. Even if I was behind Rich.

               “You will be. Don’t pick something stupid, okay?”

               “Fine.” T.J. pressed the tape into the deck. Dearly beloved. We are gathered here to . . . “Is this okay?”

               “You get one shot,” Rich said, looking down over the top of his Wayfarers. Rich had the Miami Vice style, complete with the sockless loafers. I hated him for his dark brown tan, the kind you can get if you have good – no, not good, great vacations. He just got home from a trip to Lake Tahoe, skiing over the long holiday weekend. Yeah. One of my friends had money. That’s why we were going to San Francisco. Rich’s treat. “You pick the wrong tape, dude, and you’re grounded from music.”

               Rich smiled. “That’ll work. We won’t even have to change it.”

               “Finally! Something you’re okay with.”

               “What’s that supposed to mean?”

               “Hey, guys,” I shouted from the back. “I can’t hear the music. Shut it!”

               Both T.J. and Rich started laughing.

               “Listen to you?” T.J. laughed. “Are you serious?”

               “Man. That’s the LAST THING we’re going to do!”

               “Totally, dude!” They laughed through Let’s Go Crazy and halfway through Take Me with U before stopping.

               “So what’s the plan?” T.J. asked.

               “Plan? Do we ever have a plan?” Rich asked.

               “Hell no!” I shouted, laughing.

               “Damn straight!” Rich cackled back. “I figure Skeeball, games, ice cream. Ghirardelli chocolate, anyone?”

               We all laughed, never expecting a motorcycle to flip into our lane, bounce four times, and smash the top of the Bronco II. Rich lost control of the Bronco II, overturning the small truck multiple times. The three of us woke up, spinning upside-down in the truck. I wasn’t sure where I was, the music still playing, now halfway through Baby I’m a Star.

               I couldn’t move, the seatbelt holding me in place. I screamed, “Rich! Rich! Can you hear me?”

               “Dude! Shut up. I’m not deaf!” Rich punched the air, groaning.

               T.J. moaned, “I think I’m going to throw up.” I heard him gagging. For a fleeting moment, I thought it would be funny if he did – straight into his nose, what with us being upside down. Then I remembered we were actually upside down – and he could die, drowning in his own puke. Not a pleasant thought. Not cool. Not at all.

               “Dude! Not in the Bronco!”

               “Rich, it doesn’t matter. The two is history.” I referred to his truck as the two because it was easier than saying Bronco II.

               “Hey! You guys okay in there?” The spinning stopped, sirens filling the air. “My name is Officer Johns, Dublin Police.”

               “We didn’t make it out of Dublin? Damn it! What the hell happened?” Rich spat.

               “I’m still trying to figure that out. When I get more answers, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, hang tight.”

               “Hang tight?” Rich flailed, trying to break free of the seatbelt. “Poor choice of words, Officer J.”

               “It’s Johns. I’ll be back.”

               We never did find out what happened to the motorcyclist. After the EMTs got us out, all of us were unharmed, other than being traumatized by flipping over and over in a small truck. We never learned the biker’s name or if he survived. His bike, a Honda Hawk NT650, was a mangled hunk of metal. We couldn’t identify it at the crash scene, much less figure out the year, make, and model. One of the cops told us what it was. And we never listened to Purple Rain again!