June 8, 2002. Thursday, driving in the red rental Grand Am, I tried the radio and found it set to the loud rock station, but anemicly quiet. Turned it up. Better. Opened a window. Better yet. Tabbed the electronic control for the passenger side window. That's right.
Wind twirling tendrils of my hair, my noise pressing the world outside my car, dust of summer in through the windows -- each sensation bringing me closer to starring in my own road movie. Something elementally American about cars and noise and summer, built of tales and images repeated in variation. Enhanced by my neighbor's questioning whether I had a sporty sister visiting and the dangerous thrill of refusing the Collision Damage Waiver. Deepened perhaps by the recent accident, mild and yet opening the abyss of might-have-been-worse.
The real reason I had a sports car in my driveway: my car was in the shop.
In March, I took a seven thousand mile road trip. Earlier in May, Doug and I drove fifteen hundred miles to Networld/Interop and back. May 15th, on a routine grocery run, my little white Subaru Impreza Outback, sitting innocently at a four way stop, is buggered by a black Chevy Suburban.
Opposites attract, I guess.
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