LOW FUEL LIGHT

It was during the witching hour one summer in the late Eighties, when my cousin was overcome by the brilliant idea to break-and-enter into his own house by means of a butter knife. Why was he locked out? His parents called it "tough love".
"Do you believe this shit?" he asked me with a grin as the door yawned open.
Against my better judgment, he disconnected the four-foot Kenwood speaker from the family home entertainment system, and passed it out the window to a friend of his who was waiting outside with the engine running. Never mind that it wasn't his car, and please ignore the fact that the owner-- his estranged girlfriend-- was sound asleep at home under the flawed presumption that her car was safe in the garage.
We drove two blocks to a parking lot, which afforded us a little light to see by, and proceeded to wire the speaker into the factory system of this powder blue Geo Metro with a burned out taillight. We played N.W.A. at a head-squeezing volume.
My cousin had met yet another wide-eyed doe of a girl at the mall a few days prior, and was intent on driving to her house for the purpose of courting her. And by "courting", I mean "impaling upon his love truncheon". It was now 1AM, and she lived 30 miles away. But he had that certain look in his eye.
The trip took us two hours, owing to poor navigation. When we found the house, the windows were black with sleep. The girl let us in, and the driver and I sat in the living room playing her Super Nintendo while my cousin tried to whisper her clothes off in the hallway.
Then her mother woke up. It was clearly time to go. "Come with us," pleaded my relation in the lamenting whine of a man so close and yet so far from scoring. The lights upstairs came on, and we scrambled for our lives through a side window, leaving mother and daughter locked in sonic combat.
The low fuel light came on. Together, we had 50-cents and two D batteries, which forced us to turn to a life of crime. We pulled into an interstate Stop-And-Rob. The driver began to fill the tank as my cousin slowly reached for his empty wallet. He stalled, then walked halfway to the store. On cue, he turned and dove in through the passenger window, legs scrambling for purchase as we screamed off the lot. That little cloud of a car did 70 MPH or better the rest of the way home.
When we got back, the lights in my cousin's house were all on-- apparently, the missing speaker and jimmied lock had been noticed. We kept driving until the fuel light came on again, before surrendering to the inevitable and heading home.