The year was 1967 and your driver's license was paper. The station was full service and owned by two brothers.
They had a car for me that was indestructible. I smiled as I looked at my beauty and handed Mendel, the boss brother, forty dollars. We signed the title and the other brother notarized it. I then called mother's insurance company and got insurance.
Thomas, the mechanic, approached me. He was one of my best friends which was frowned on, for he was a black man and it was the sixties, but he was old and wise and my feigned innocence never got past him.
He shook his head at me and told me, 'Chile, you won't break this as easy as yo' mama's cars.'
I had ruined a car or two of mothers. Luckily, she blamed the street conditions and the brothers and Thomas kept my secrets.
"She's a beauty, right?" I glowed looking at my baby; my car. She was kind of burgundy and white, built like a tank and an Oldsmobile. Sure, she was old, a 1954, but she looked good.
I turned the key and she roared to life. I cheered and waved good bye, ready to pick up all my chums waiting for their first ride.
The guys shook their heads and I smiled knowing I was safe in the tank.
What killed her? Seems you can't go even slightly airborne and expect her to survive for long.
She was towed away right before my graduation and I learned to ride the bus. It was a sad day.
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