1976
And a car named Rusty
I call my car Rusty. I know cars are supposed to be female, but Rusty isn’t. He is far too lazy to be female. He can sit all day long and be perfectly content. And he was cheap. Girls are not cheap.
One day, I was having lunch with Rusty. Actually, inside Rusty. In a fast-food parking lot. Out of nowhere, Rusty told me he wanted to visit his homeland. Normally, he doesn’t talk much. Cars are like that. Moody. Of course, he didn’t talk in an audible voice. But if a car likes you and trusts you enough, it will talk to you. You just have to listen the right way.
Since school had just let out, and I had gotten my driver’s license a week earlier, I thought, why not?
“Alright. We’re off to Detroit.”
I finished the last bite of my burger, wadded up the wrapper, and stuffed it in the bag. Suddenly, the guy from the drive-thru window came running out of the building and straight to my car window.
“Dude. I couldn’t help overhearing your car. I need to get to Michigan. Can I catch a ride with you?”
“You heard my car?”
“Sure. You just have to listen the right way. I will split gas with you and I get a discount on Chubby burgers.”
“Hop in,” I said. “What’s your name?”
