Mopower Garage

By Fletcher P. Kuykendall                                                               Episode – 3

It was a Friday night in July 1990, the kind of summer evening with warm air, and the sky held just a hint of pink long after the sun dipped below the horizon. Johnny B. Whiskey had just washed the black ’68 Dart, wiped it down with an old T-shirt, and hit the rear quarters with some cheap paste wax until they gleamed under the streetlights. He didn’t care about show quality—it just had to look sharp enough for Jennifer.

Jennifer Rae Dunham. Long blonde hair, a blue jean skirt, and a laugh that made people stop and look. She’d said yes when he asked if she wanted to see a movie at the County Drive-In. She said she liked Mopars, too, which sealed it. Now Johnny was nervous in the way only a grease-under-the-fingernails kind of guy could be before a night out with someone way out of his league.

The Dart idled rough, loping done Main Street as they cruised to the edge of town where the old drive-in sat tucked behind rows of tall pines. The scent of popcorn drifted through the summer air, neon lights flickered over classic car bumpers, and kids sat on tailgates drinking root beer floats. It felt like stepping back into 1969. That’s what Johnny loved about the place—it was frozen in time, just like his Dart.

Jennifer slid across the bench seat, her perfume mixing with the scent of worn vinyl and high-octane fuel. She tapped the dash with her fingernails. “This thing sounds like it wants to fight someone.”

Johnny grinned. “It usually does.”

They rolled into the second row, the unofficial spot for heavy-hitting cars and serious kids—Chevelles, Chargers, GTOs, and Johnny’s beat-up black Dart, its 340 still ticking as it cooled. A few guys gave approving nods. One even walked by and muttered, “Clean ride, man.” Johnny nodded back, trying not to look like it meant everything.

He reached over and hooked the speaker into the window. Static crackled, then the deep baritone of a movie trailer boomed: “Coming this summer… vengeance hits the highway.” Jennifer laughed and leaned back. “God, I love these cheesy movies.”

Johnny didn’t really care what was playing. He spent more time watching her than the screen. She glowed in the pale blue light of the projection, tapping her foot to the music playing between reels, occasionally sipping from a cherry Coke with two straws.

“You ever go out here when you were a kid?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yeah. With my folks. Saw Smokey and the Bandit here. Thought it was the coolest thing in the world. I swore I’d grow up and drive something like that.”

Jennifer looked over at the Dart. “You kinda did.”

Johnny laughed. “Nah, mine’s better.”

They sat in silence for a while, windows cracked, crickets chirping, and the occasional clatter of someone dropping a tray of food at the snack stand. A Charger rumbled to life behind them and peeled out. No one even flinched. That was normal.

Then, out of nowhere, Jennifer asked, “You ever take this thing to County Line?”

Johnny raised an eyebrow. “What, the street races?”

She nodded.

He hesitated, then smiled. “Once or twice.”

She leaned in, conspiratorial. “I heard you smoked Tommy Ray’s Camaro earlier this month.”

Johnny tried to play it cool. “Well, he said I wouldn’t show up. I had to remind him the Dart ain’t just for parking lots.”

Jennifer grinned and squeezed his hand. “Good. He’s a jerk.”

Just then, the movie reached a slow scene. Jennifer leaned over and rested her head on his shoulder. Johnny froze for half a second, then relaxed, letting his arm settle behind her. Her hair smelled like strawberries and sunshine. The bench seat suddenly felt like the most comfortable place in the world.

“This your first car?” she asked softly.

“Yep. Bought it last year. Fixed it up myself.”

She smiled. “That’s kind of hot.”

Johnny laughed a little too loudly, then caught himself. “I mean… yeah, I guess.”

The film played on, but neither of them paid much attention anymore. The drive-in had worked its magic. Somewhere between the roar of the Dart, the neon lights on polished chrome, and the syrupy sweet taste of cherry Coke, the world had melted into something perfect—timeless, effortless.

By the time the credits rolled and the speakers crackled with that old “Goodnight folks!” jingle, Johnny didn’t want the night to end. He looked over at Jennifer. She was already looking at him.

“You wanna go for a ride?” he asked.

She nodded.

The Dart roared back to life, echoing through the rows as they pulled out. The tires squealed just a little as they hit the pavement. Laughter, stars overhead, and the pulse of the small-block Mopar soundtrack followed them down the road.

That night, Johnny B. Whiskey didn’t just feel 20 years old.

He felt invincible.