Boyhood

Today, I pulled my black 2001 Volkswagen Jetta VR6 up to a stop light on Atlanta Highway. I was the first car at the line. Then a low, bright orange Asian car pulled alongside me, an indistinguishable brand beneath the customized, plastic body, the glaring paint and the decals. Its muffler emitted that familiar aggressive buzz, and it inched forward, little by little. The driver noticed when I glanced over to read his endorsements, or wannabe endorsements, and he inched up a little more. I, in my blue tie and professional haircut, with my windows down, listening to a loud summer mixtape from my friend in the oil and gas business, took my foot off the brake and brought my clutch just to the edge of engaging. I did not inch up at all. I brought up the RPM a notch and waited as the orange drifter rolled half an inch closer to the line.

The light changed, and I poured it on, fast and furious. He tried to catch up but could not. Despite his suggestive inching, he may not have expected a real contest. I brought my VR6 to the red line in first gear, then second, and he never had a chance. I then eased off and started to brake at 60 miles per hour in second gear. It was a 35 MPH zone. We both slowed down to respect the law, and as he passed me, nodded with pleasant respect, gratitude and bit of admiration, I think. I gave him a casual wave and drove onto lunch at a meat-and-three with another young lawyer* then onto the courthouse to be a grown up.

I love the summertime.


*Named Baron, for you blogophiles.