The Pontiac

I was the first punk not afraid to walk up the driveway. I saw him smoking in the front seat of his car, one leg in, the other leg out. He shifted his head and watched me walk up to the car door and ask if I could look inside. “I want one of these.”

He nodded. “You know what this is?” He stared straight at me. I said it was a 1967 Pontiac LeMans with all-original interior from the look of the dashboard and door panels, dials and chrome knobs and the dual-gate shifter in the center console. I touched the split-bench seat behind his shoulder and felt hard black vinyl. He lifted the cigarette to his mouth and took a drag and exhaled smoke through his nose.

We sat in his car until it was dark, smoking cigarettes and listening to the oldies station that he sometimes tapped the steering wheel to. I asked if he was born there. I told him I couldn’t wait to get out. “It’s a good town and all but nothing that hasn’t been done will ever get done.” He flicked the cigarette away from the car and we lit up again.

“You want to take a drive?”

I said sure and asked if I could take the wheel. He looked sideways at me and blew out smoke fast. “Sure do got a pair,” he said. I knew he was going to let me drive, not out of the gate but later. “She’s got a lot under the hood.” I knew he couldn’t wait. He fired her up. I never heard such a sweet sound before, not from the inside. The floorboards rumbled. I could feel it through my feet. This car had balls. We growled down the driveway and into the street. The car was hungry for the pedal, itching for it, edgy. I threw my arm across the top of his seat behind his shoulder. He grinned and asked if I was ready. I nodded and gripped the door with one hand and the back of his seat with the other before we jumped and that untamed devil roared away from his house and his life and we yelled and whooped over the engine and the wind and the darkness as we blasted out, out into a suddenly wide world.

*