The dealer must have sold you for a song to my parents, little Dodge. Who else would buy a standard shift, silver car with black vinyl interior and all black molding including the black plastic steering wheel with no air conditioning for use in Texas? In the summer?
August, 104 degrees is not unheard of. The vinyl softens in the heat. I’m in a hurry, sit down, and immediately burn the backs of my legs. If I had time, I would go back and get the towel I usually keep on the seat, but truth be told, on a day like today, I’d get burned through the fabric. My fingers dance across the steering wheel, touching it as little as possible, until the breeze has cooled everything down.
I’m driving to Barbara’s in North Dallas. The radio is AM only, so I have my jam box in the back seat, powered by 4 D batteries. Prince’s 1999 cued up. It’s 1983 and he’s singing our future. We will be 33 years old in 1999. I’d rather party like I’m 17. I am 17. Shift into third. At the red light facing uphill, I don’t even use the brake: one foot on the clutch, one on the gas, holding it against gravity, perfectly found tension.
I pick up Barbara. Some days she’s lucky and her dad lets her drive his Datsun Z car, but today is not one of those days. We haven’t planned where we are going. Summer Saturday afternoon. 7-eleven cherry slushies melt before we finish them. We drive to the Peter Pan Park off Royal Ave. Sit on the rocks. Dream out loud.
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| Barbara at Peter Pan Park. She's got the jam box from the car. I'm sure it's Prince. |
Behind us, the windshield reflects the sunlight towards us, like a magnifying glass focusing light on a leaf. It feels like a spotlight, like our future. We are in a rush to drive there. We think it will welcome us. We think we will shift into fourth and cross over to who we always wanted to be. We don’t know about the holes it will burn in us.
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| The Rocks at Peter Pan Park |
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