I Blame Dennis Hopper by Illeana Douglas

question for him: “Mr. Cronenberg, why?”
    The last movie I ever saw at the drive-in was Motel Hell, in 1980. Like my first drive-in movie, Romeo and Juliet , it also was centered on a short-lived, doomed romance. I had met a boy named Henry in history class. He was a little older than I, from a wealthy family, but he thought I was funny and he asked me out on a few dates. Soon enough we were going steady. I was thrilled, until he asked me to the drive-in. We had never done anything more than kiss, and I was a little nervous about what “going to the drive-in” with a boy meant. I reluctantly agreed to go, convincing myself that he was a nice boy from a good family and certainly wouldn’t expect anything more from me beyond watching a good R-rated thriller! We were watching Motel Hell, and it was, again, sometime between dusk and dawn, and surprise, surprise, Henry suddenly wanted to do more than just watch the movie. I was very disappointed, because I’m a big Rory Calhoun fan, and I love movies about making meat products out of human beings. But there I was, trying to make some sense of the plot, and Henry kept trying to put his hand down my pants.
    I kept squirming and saying “C’mon, I want to watch the movie,” which, when the movie is Motel Hell , is kind of lame, but it’s all I had. He kept trying. Back then, the teenage girl’s version of “I have a headache” was to tell a guy you have your period, so I said, “Henry, I’m sorry, I have my period,” and that put an end to it. He looked bored after that and started talking about his blue Corvette. I had to stop watching the movie and pretend I was interested in his blue Corvette. Basically, Henry ruined Motel Hell for me.
    In the weeks before our drive-in date, Henry had kept telling me about the new car his dad was buying him, which was the aforementioned Corvette. Back then it seemed fairly interesting. He showed me countless pictures of it, describing it in loving detail. At the drive-in, when he made me stop watching Motel Hell , he said, “Pretty soon I won’t have to be driving my parents’ car. I’ll have my blue Corvette.” It was the symbol of his being a wealthy kid. His father could simply order him a Corvette. We left the drive-in way before dawn, and he talked about his stupid Corvette the entire drive home. A week or so later Henry called me, very excited to tell me that his blue Corvette had arrived, and, true to his word, he asked if I wanted to go for a spin. I was thrilled. My mother was making dinner, and I threw on my denim jacket and told her that Henry was taking me for a drive in his brand-new car. Even my mother had heard about this stupid blue Corvette. We were all waiting for it. My mom—bless her heart—was then driving another poormobile, a burnt-orange Chevy Chevette.
    Henry pulled up in the car, he honked the horn, and it was a beauty. Baby blue. Lots of chrome. Not my kind of car—I don’t really like Corvettes—but I could appreciate the artistry. He finally finished stroking and petting the car, I jumped in, and we headed down the driveway and out onto the road. He was driving really slowly, like 20 miles an hour, and I shouted, “C’mon, let’s put the pedal to the metal!”
    â€œI don’t want a wreck,” he said. “She’s brand new.”
    All of a sudden, I felt really gauche.
    â€œSure,” I said.
    Henry looked really handsome driving his car like a senior citizen down the road. He was beaming, and I started thinking about what had happened—or rather, what had not happened—at the drive-in. Maybe I was a little uptight? I mean, I didn’t want to lose a nice boy like Henry. I should probably let him get to second base in his new Corvette. I looked at Henry and smiled, moving closer to him.
    Henry was driving, staring at the road, going ever so slowly, when he said, “What do