When we were in our mid-20s, Nick and I once made a memorable mess.

We were on a road trip vacation, which meant we carried detailed maps and plenty of food and drink so we could tool around on byways less traveled. He drove. I navigated and assisted.

We spent time then in the Mendocino area. I have an impression we were heading north that day, with the ocean not far off our left. It was a beautiful warm afternoon. Between our bucket seats was a big plastic bottle of orange juice.

You know the type. Opaque whitish plastic with a flimsy screw top. This was around 1974, so the juice inside was not fresh-squeezed.

Nick had taken a swig a few minutes earlier and replaced the bottle. I swear the top appeared affixed when I lifted the thing. Always before he’d retopped the bottle; why would I check?

It’s perfectly natural to shake a bottle of orange juice before drinking. Especially if it was made from concentrate. So that’s what I did. I lifted the plastic container with my left hand and just before bringing my right up to open it I gave that bottle a hearty shake: down up down up

The cap flew up at the first down. The juice flew up too. I managed to spray the windshield, the dashboard, the ceiling, the doors, and us.