Beneath Stars Long Extinct

Into First

19 Into First Sixteen to the day, the first time I legally sat in that front left seat. Gripping the wheel—the roundness of the world waiting—a hot black ribbon laid below me, promising escape. A fire-red Pinto, that defective Detroit masterpiece famous for exploding when rear-ended, was mine, bought by countless busboy dishes, and now, probably compressed smaller than a mattress. On my right for a change, my father trying not to shout, ready to ride out motion sickness, waited for me to find the dual-foot, heel-toe sweet spot combination. I eased out the clutch, feeling for the right amount of footpound push and release. Then, the shudders, the hesitation as she begged fuel while commanded forward. Our heads, practicing for whiplash, rattled like insects in an epileptic kid’s jar. I restarted, tried again, the stick forward into first, the sweat-wet wheel and AM radio all under my shaky sway. 20 That black ribbon and everywhere it could take us waited, and behind, an ugly childhood of inertia I left as I slid the stick into second. My father beside me tried to encourage, not puke, his knuckles regaining color as he watched me go. ...