Drive Ins

From Ollywiki

Drive-ins generally:

Still Closed

The blue black sky has a few puffy clouds. An afterthought. The swish of distant traffic. A dust devil whipping across the gravel parking lot picking up an empty bag of Cheezies and dropping it, over and over. The hollow sound of styrofoam cups rolling into each other in an oil-stained pothole. Over and over.

Dr. Zhivago (1966)

The blue vinyl expanse of the Buick’s bench seat. A drive-in theatre, somewhere near the airport. The setting sun flashing orange off the skins of planes banking wide across the flatlands. Their sooty exhaust plumes melding into the topaz industrial sky. Kids in pajamas playing on a rusty swing set as they wait for the cartoons to come on. Dad in the driver’s seat, the smell of the styrene factory seeping from his pores. He’s smoking an Old Port, “wine dipped” with a white plastic filter at the end of it. The deep shuddering of the car as the 707 passes over us and sinks behind the big white screen. The landing lights strobing on the dirty aluminum underbelly. The array of rubber wheels. The silhouettes of the passengers framed in their lozenge-shaped windows. The Russian Balalaika music on the loudspeaker lost in a crackle of radio interference. The tormented air. The distant rumbling. My cheek against the cool automotive glass. The smell of summer dust.