After I watched Top Gun up in my room, I dyed my blonde hair black, threw on some aviators, and grabbed my dad’s car keys. Oh, and I had to grab the last Bud in the fridge.
Maybe there was a Pete “Maverick” Mitchell lookalike contest in the basement of the Y on Harrison next to Harry’s Hair Store and a burned-down doggy daycare. Maybe not.
Anyways, I blasted “Take My Breath Away” going 80 down 580 when a cop lit me up.
“Who do you think you are? Tom Cruise?” he said through the rolled-down window.
“I just watched Top Gun.”
“I hate that movie. How old are you, son?”
Back at the station, he called my dad as I slept in a cell with my hands stained black.
In the morning, I drove home slowly. While I forgot my aviators in the car, I scrubbed and scrubbed my hands on kitchen tiles, but I couldn’t get them clean.