At 8:30, my girlfriends and I are finished with our telemarketing shift at Olan Mills Portrait Studio. We jump into a car and head to 7-11 to find out what’s happening tonight. We park in the lot and soon two cars pull in, one of them a chocolate brown BMW 320i, both full of testosterone-fueled guys. Two of them saunter into 7-11 and exit with a case of 3.2 Shaeffer beer. The guys come over, no one knows of any parties, we hang out for a bit. “We know someplace we can go,” one guy says. 

We jump into cars and peel out in a line, leaving suburbia. Our car train stops on a tumbleweed-strewn parched field.

“We call it The Moon,” one of the guys says.

The cute one inserts a Police cassette tape into his car stereo and finds the song, Walking on the Moon. He opens his car doors and cranks it up. We all cheer and dance and sing along, gazing up at the clear night sky, imagining ourselves on the surface of the moon. 

I’m chilly. The cute boy with the BMW offers his Guess jean jacket. Later he drives me home. He doesn’t ask for his jacket back.

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