My sister, away for a month, had left her car in my care. If ever Detroit built a vehicle designed for mobile mooning, it was her '55 Buick Roadmaster convertible. Big as a tank, with the top down we fit three guys in front (bench seats) and three in back for "standing moons."
We needed practice. While cruising a main highway the following Saturday night, I saw four women in the car ahead. Driving in the left of three lanes, they were in their mid-twenties, dressed-to-kill, and seemed party-bound. I eased the massive Buick on their right, then tooted the horn as our front bumper was amidships of their car. All four looked right to behold my pinhead buttressed by dual moons in front and triplets in back. Even though their windows were up, we heard howls of laughter as the five-moon Buick zoomed away.
Has high blood pressure
Got a hold on me
Or is this the way
Life's supposed to be?
Just like a heat wave,
burning in my heart.
For four consecutive warm-spring nights we did drive-by moons of that same McDonald's where I'd been mooned. Instead of whizzing by via the highway at unsafe speed, we used a traffic-light side street that crossed the highway and ran along the side of Mac's. The Buick's Dynaflow auto-trans enabled me to stand on the seat and moon after placing the trans-lever in "D" and punching the accelerator. Ergo: six moons per Buick. A pal named Slick improvised a backseat, stand-on-his-head "banana split" (use your imagination).
Using white shoe polish, I'd scrawled Moon Mobile on the black Buick's sides so fans could see us approach as they munched burgers and fries. Schools weren't yet out for the summer, so kids spread the word in class. As Thomas doubted the Resurrection till he'd placed fingers in Jesus' side wound, so also did teen skeptics doubt reports of our nightly mooning — till they came to see with their own eyes Slick's horrifying banana splits. McDonald's prospered.
On the fourth night, I stopped the Buick at the traffic light across from Mac's. At least a hundred fans stood in its car-filled parking lot, with two zealots holding aloft a banner stretched between broom handles:
When the light turned green and the big-ass Buick eased across the highway and into the parking lot instead of our usual drive-by moons via the side street, our fans were deflated to see only my pinhead behind the steering wheel.
"Where's Banana Split?" one lusty girl whined.
"Couldn't make it," I said while circling Mac's twin-golden-arch building, stopping at the exit to wait for traffic to pass before entering the highway.
When the road was clear, I turned the Buick's bus-sized steering wheel hard right, nailed the accelerator, tapped its horn thrice and yelled, "Now!"
Up popped the trunk's lid to reveal three cheek-to-cheek moons — well lit beneath the lid's inner lamp. As we zoomed out of the turn (mooners in trunk struggling to stay on hands and knees) laughter and applause from behind was so loud it muffled the Buick's roar. Our fans had been caught with their pants down.
Welcome back, Mooners!
