Craig and I rode in his 1960 Pontiac Bonneville Convertible.  He’d driven in and picked me up outside my apartment, as he lived at the bachelor officer’s quarters on the base.  We didn’t drive from there in silence, but we drove without talking.  The Bonneville’s convertible top no longer functioned so the wind noise was all we had for company, and since Jackman drove at some ungodly speed on the freeway (the speedometer was also nonfunctional) that meant we couldn’t talk at all once he raced through the three manual gears to get to higher rpm as quickly as possible, which was pretty quick in the giant, but fast and nimble, convertible.  For some reason, Craig spent hundreds of dollars to put three two-barrel carburetors on the big V8 engine.  We headed back to the base, passing the exit at Las Pulgas and blasting right on down the coast to the main entrance to Camp Pendleton.  The spray, generated by big surf waves encountering the shore beneath the cliff that paralleled the nearby highway, made seeing through the windshield problematic, not that the problem seemed to bother Craig.  I wondered if the Bonneville’s windshield wipers even worked, or maybe Craig’s coke bottle thick eyeglasses were more helpful to his seeing than my own vision was for me.

Craig pulled the car into a big parking lot.  I realized we were in front of the base theater.

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