“Nobody Who Drives a Volvo Station Wagon with Connecticut Plates Has a Gun”
Wurtsboro, NY | Summer, 1986
There are corners of the world that stick with you. Not because of what’s there—but because of what happened there.
For me, the corner of Sullivan Street and Route 209—right near Danny’s Village Inn—was one of those. You used to be able to make a right on red at that intersection. I don’t know when it changed or who decided that was the intersection to regulate, but I suspect it had something to do with giving state troopers something new to write up. It used to be just another turn. This story begins at this light and ends 400 feet away, but has the excitement of a Bullitt car chase scene
Danny’s Village Inn has stood on that corner in one form or another since the early 1800s. In a former life, it was Ye Clarendon Inn. The building itself—the old Gumaer House—dates back to 1816. Locals just call it Danny’s. A bar with good food, a little grit, and stories soaked deep into its beams. Imagine in Two hundred years just how many poor, alcohol fueled choices were made here
That whole block has weight. Across the street was the Stewart’s Shop where I met my my wife ,Jamie Lee. On the corner sat Danny’s, where I once threw a drunk guy over a knee wall and into a superior court judge’s mussels marinara. True story. The guy had it coming. The judge was surprisingly cool about it.
And in the summertime, tucked into Danny’s lot, was a little shack called Custer’s Last Stand—maybe the best ice cream stand name in recorded history. Twist cones the size of your head. Wooden deck. florescent tube lights. Enough bugs to qualify as a wildlife preserve. Still, it was the perfect Catskill summer hangout.
But that’s not this story.
This is about Alan.
We were in the '78 Chevy Big Ten Pickup—family packed in, limbs tangled, windows down. Mom up front. Me and my sister in the middle, where seatbelts were either removed or just ignored into extinction. That truck was rolling parental chaos with a bench seat and ashtrays.
Alan was driving. Calm. Steady. Left arm out the window. Cigarette balanced between two fingers like it came factory-installed. We were inching toward that infamous corner, waiting to make a right.
Now, in the summertime Catskills, Wurtsboro turns into a magnet for lost tourists. They come up from the city and Connecticut, chasing some vague idea of a rustic escape, then drive like they’re in a deleted scene from a car chase movie they only half remember. You’ll see brake lights at the bottom of every hill. People stopping in the middle of Route 209 when a glider swoops in for a landing at the nearby airport—like they’ve just seen a UFO.
We were just starting to turn when, out of nowhere, a Volvo station wagon with Connecticut plates roared up the center lane and hooked a hard right—right in front of us. Cut us off completely. Pulled directly into the lot at Danny’s, barely missing the nose of the Big Ten, and screeched to a stop right in front of Custer’s Last Stand.
We never saw him coming.
Alan slammed the brakes. Hard.
This was pre-ABS—just raw steel, brake shoes, drums, and a little bit of prayer.
Mom and Alan both instinctively threw their arms out like human seatbelts to keep us from slamming into the dash. Cigarette ash exploded across the cab. The truck rocked to a stop. We all just sat there for a moment, blinking.
Then came the sound.
The guttural roar of the Rochester four-barrel carburetor opening wide.
The tires chirped and spun.
And my mom said it:
“Alan. No. ALAN, PLEASE.”
But it was already happening.
Alan had dropped the truck into Low with a sound like a thunderclap.
Floored it across the parking lot.
The Volvo had barely come to a full stop before Alan skidded the Big Ten within three inches of its rear bumper, slammed it into park, and launched himself out of the cab in one seamless, terrifying motion.
Now, let me explain something.
We didn’t know the full backstory then. We didn’t know he was First Cavalry, Vietnam. That he had two Purple Hearts. That he earned so many Air Medals they stopped pinning them one-by-one and started giving him oak leaf clusters instead. That he was once nominated for a Bronze Star. We didn’t know the details. We just knew Alan didn’t play
His rage wasn’t loud. It was precise. Efficient. Like someone had taught it how to jump out a helicopter under fire and then put it in denim and gave it a Zippo.
By the time Volvo Man got out of the car, Alan had him.
The guy stepped out like he’d just pulled up to order a root beer float after a doubles match. Pink shorts. Powder blue Izod. Sunglasses. Probably called his father “Father.” All that was missing was a sweater tied around his waist and a tennis racket wedged in the trunk.
Alan didn’t hesitate.
He had the guy by the collar, lifted—clear off the ground—back pressed against the driver door of his own Volvo. Loafers dangling like wind chimes.
What followed was a thunderstorm of unforgettable phrases, most of which would earn an FCC fine and a bar of soap in the mouth. The gist?
“You almost killed my family for a f***ing ice cream cone?”
“You think that’s how a turn lane works,?”
“You ever drive like that again, I’ll park you like a goddamn Buick.”
And let me tell you, that man was parked against his own Volvo like a Buick wedged in a January snowbank
His wife sat frozen in the passenger seat. The only movement was Alan’s furious reflection in her enormous Connecticut sunglasses.
Then—just like that—Alan let him down. Not gently, but not with malice. Just enough to make a point. Two fingers to the chest. Some final, quiet words that probably left a mark deeper than anything physical.
He turned. Walked back to the truck like he was leaving a grocery store. Climbed in. Lit another cigarette. Signaled. Waited for traffic. Pulled out.
None of us said a word.
Just the sound of the blinker ticking, the smell of burnt rubber and rage.
Until my mom broke the silence:
“Alan… he could’ve had a gun.”
Alan didn’t even blink. Took a drag. Exhaled.
“Nobody who drives a Volvo station wagon with Connecticut plates has a gun.”
And he was right.
That corner’s still there. Danny’s still pours drinks. Custer’s still serves cones. And every time I return home I drive past, I slow down—not for the bar, or where i wooed the love of my life, or the ice cream—but because I can still hear that four-barrel carb. Smell the scorched tires and Raleigh cigarettes. And I can still see my father, back straight, eyes locked, voice like a sledgehammer. I'm also like ninety nine percent sure that that guy never returned to Wurtsboro and decided to go to the Poconos the next year
Alan.
Vietnam vet.
Wurtsboro legend.
Yuppie whisperer.
If this was your first ride with Alan, there’s a whole stretch of road behind us.
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