Tennessee. Highway 321 towards the Smoky Mountains. The broken back left window whistled lush green freedom.
Gas station hood popping. Acting like I knew what the hell I was looking at just to impress a girlfriend.
Parked in front of my friend Tony’s house. Shooting the shit at 2am. Saying what I really thought about God.
18 x 3. Driving into NYC without parents for the first time. Getting us lost in the Bronx.
My warehouse coworkers in Tennessee showing me where the alternator was. Them laughing as I asked what it did.
Driving my mother’s ’85 Charger senior year of High School. It was made of plastic and duct tape, but it was the Saturn V in my teenage eyes.
Almost night. Mojave National Preserve, September 11, 2001. The radio flickering in and out.
The sound of my father pulling into the driveway as he came home from work.
The fight when that guy jumped on my hood in college.
Her bare feet on the dash. Hot Pink Glitter.
The heat in the cold. The cool in the heat.