It is 1986.
I am driving through torrential rains on the San Diego Freeway. Lightning strikes every five seconds. It’s the most amazing storm I can remember. And I can remember a lot of storms.
As I exit on Western Avenue, the delay between lightning and thunder diminishes. I stop at the light. A bright flash lights up the night sky but I can’t see the bolt. The thunder sounds simultaneously. My radio goes dead. I think the radio station is off the air.
My windshield wipers sluice rain from the glass. They slow, then stop. I punch buttons on my radio. KROQ. KWST. KLOS. KMET. KNAC. All gone.
I realize my engine isn’t running.
I have always been fascinated by lightning. I spent the evening at a party in college sitting on the patio watching a spectacular dry lightning storm. My beautiful date was inside getting the attention she deserved from any number of guys. I wanted the lightning.
Not long after that I renewed my driver’s license. I changed my signature so the S in my first name resembled a lightning bolt.
I was crossing a bridge in Montana as it was struck by lightning – watched the blue glow travel along the power cable connecting the street lights. I watched another storm from the giant M on the hill behind the University of Montana in Missoula. It crossed the valley towards me, a physical manifestation of my emotional state.
I’ve seen lightning in a snow storm. It was like being inside a light bulb.
I eventually reclaimed my date from the party and drove her home, only to sit with her in front of her parents’ house watching the lightning strike every few seconds.
It is 1986.
My car won’t start. I turn on the emergency lights. They blink – once. I push the car through eight inches of water in Miami-style rain. Another car pushes me to the gas station on the corner.
I leave it overnight. The next day the mechanic tells me he’s had it on the charger all night.
“I don’t know what happened to it, but it won’t hold a charge.”
I have a pretty good idea what happened to it.