We’d hardly left preschool, when on the straight-stretch a mostly-white beater caught up with us and matched us rpm for rpm.
Only, c’mon…this thing had nothin’ on our van.
At the red light, when the driver of the two-door beater shifted from first to second and backfired, I scrambled for anything to jam in my ear. My son…
my son perked up to the same racket, and with a finger that stretched across his sister’s face, he shouted, “COOL CAR!”
By which time I glanced back out the window to confirm that there indeed was nothing cool about this car. Especially its non-muffler. But as the beater shifted six more times and accelerated an inch ahead of our van in the lane beside ours, my son couldn’t stand it any longer and he yelped, “Mommy, catch that fast car!”
Only I slowed to turn. And my son…
my son ogled after the noise (BRMM–RUMMM–RUMM–RUMMM) he found innately beautiful.