1974 Coronet

Recently I went to my friend Jeff's house to help him with yard work. While there, we discussed cars, school, jobs, and our multi-faceted issues with the opposite sex. It was a great bonding experience; I've found that nothing helps secure a friendship quite like working and sweating together. In fact, we first cemented our relationship as weight training partners in 10th grade. During this bonding time, we also unexpectedly got to use a chainsaw. Apparently, Jeff's father has always wanted a certain bush to be removed but had never found the time to do it. It just so happened that he was out of town for the weekend, so Jeff's mother asked us to remove it and surprise him. We looked at her, and looked at the bush. Slowly and perfectly synchronized, our heads swiveled toward eachother and our eyes met. I could see the twinkle in his eye and knew that he could see the same in mine. It was a beautiful moment, but was broken off by our full-out sprint to the tool shed.
It took us about 2 hours to remove this huge bush; all the while, we were able to release our pent-up aggression and anxiety through the majesty of the blade. We took a step back, put our hands on our hips, and admired the handiwork of our destruction. Immediately following this accomplishment, masculine butt slaps and back pats were exchanged.
As we took the chainsaw and the gas can back to the tool shed, we passed by an old garage on Jeff's seemingly boundless property.
"What's in there?" I inquired.
"Oh, a couple of my dad's old cars."
"Can I see?" I eagerly wondered.
"Sure, why not?" replied Jeff.
As he lifted the old white door, I simultaneously became aware of two things: the smell of primer and the scurrying of rats to escape the now-entering sunlight. It became instantly clear that this old garage was scarcely frequented. But why not? Why shouldn't someone want to come back here more often? On one side of the garage rested a 1974 Dodge Coronet, gray with primer and somewhat rusted. On the other side, a white 1964 Chevrolet Impala graced my line of sight. Neither was in great visible shape, but Jeff informed me that both ran quite well.
I circled around the side of the Coronet in order to take a peek at the engine. When I lifted the hood, I involuntarily gasped.
"Holy fornication! This thing's got a 440! I bet it really moves!"
Jeff seemed amused. "Yep. Sure does! In fact, it's my dad's old patrol car." Jeff's father had been a cop in California during the 70s and 80s.
"You ever put this thing on the freeway?" I hinted, a touch of provocation in my voice.
"Yeah...you wanna take her for a spin?"
Needless to say, I took Jeff up on his offer immediately. The two of us climbed in and Jeff started up the old behemoth. Soon we were flying down Highway 512 at 90 mph, careening from roadsign to Jersey barrier and back again. When we got to the 512/Interstate 5 interchange, we decided to take I-5 North.
"You know, it's been awhile since I've been through Canada," I chimed in, "Why don't we go there?"
"Great idea! When we're there we can get some cream soda. Did you know it's PINK in Canada?" Jeff shouted.
"Yeah, weird Canucks!"
As the sun set to our left and laughing drowned out the radio, the two of us continued our adventure, knowing there'd be many more ahead.