坐在我那辆开了二十多年的旧车里,儿子无比艳羡地看着身旁那些疾驰而过的卡玛洛、克尔维特和雷克萨斯……当然还有他的最爱:福特野马。
My 14-year-old son, Anton, is as enamored of cars – especially new and flashy ones – as any boy.[1] Whenever we’re out driving, he rubbernecks continuously as he spots Camaros, Corvettes, Lexuses (Lexi?) and the car of his dreams – the Ford Mustang.[2] These sightings are accompanied by the most impassioned commentaries (“Did you see that, Dad? The new Audi A6 – zero to 60 in 5.9![3]”).
“Yes, yes,” I nod. “I see it.” This is as much enthusiasm as I can muster[4], because I am as interested in new cars as I am in the various grades of sand. The tragedy for my son, however, is that we are meandering along in my 1987 Dodge Raider, a big red box of a car that is as aerodynamic as a cinder block.[5] My Raider can also go from zero to 60 in 5.9 seconds, but it has to be an exceptionally steep downhill grade[6].
My son is at an age when he is embarrassed by many things: our house, my attempt to engage his friends in conversation, the food I cook, my taste for the thrift shop[7]. But topping the list is our car. Perhaps this is why he prefers to walk the mile to school, even in the most challenging weather. On one occasion I insisted on driving him in during a deluge[8]. He allowed this, but asked that I let him out about a block from the school so he could keep his dignity intact.
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