Hotdog Supercar

No, it’s not a 70s exploitation flick.

But it does require a short backstory:

Me and my pal Rick were driving up the winding California coast – Route 1, I think, lots of S curves over high cliffs overlooking dark, expansive rocks. The dull rush of the ocean on the air. A long trip up from Los Angeles began a little too late. We took turns behind the wheel of the rental car, zipping along as fast as we dared, because we wanted to get to San Francisco before dark.

That goal proved unreachable. The sun sank into the Pacific, and inky blackness descended upon the mountains we drove through. We drove as fast as we could. Since we were living one day at a time we still had no idea where we’d be crashing that night.

Rick was behind the wheel, I was dozing as best I could in the uncomfortable bucket seat. Must’ve been around 10 or 10:30 at night when I heard him curse under his breath. I stirred, and he sensed it. “Idiot behind me tailgating me,” he said, annoyed. I sat up and tilted my head to check the right side rear view mirror and, sure enough, was blinded by bright headlights of a fast-moving vehicle ten or twelve feet behind us on the one-lane highway.

I threw out a few supportive vulgarities. Rick prodded the old rental a little faster, but his mind was elsewhere.

“It’s times like these,” I noted, “One of those James Bond supercars would come in handy.”

“Yeah, and I know exactly what mine will have,” he said with much enthusiasm. “For one, there would be headlights right over the brake lights in the back. And they’d be high beams, too!” His mind raced as he considered the possibilities. “And there would be two small doors on each side of the trunk, and when I flicked a switch on the dashboard they’d open and gallons of hot dogs would spill out onto the road behind us!”

“That would certainly take care of this jerk behind us.”

Think about the Hotdog Supercar next time you’re being tailgated ...