The venue: Los Angeles, California.
The start: Beverly and George Burns, pointed west.
The prelude: me and some Yaris making the same left off Fairfax. We both beat every light, if just barely (both recognizing what the other was doing), until we both got stopped at the Burns light.
Him: yuppie dude out for the night.
Me: pretending not to be the same (and denying the validity of the comparison until the day I die).
Both of us- windows down.
I look at him.
He looks at me.
Him: “This is stupid, right?”
Him: “We’re doing it anyway, right?”
Me: “Why not?”
Me: “I should warn you, this shit’s manual.”
Me: “Green means GO, motherfucker.”
He never had a chance. Gas mileage be damned, a manual ANYTHING beats a hybrid.
And sweet goodness. I can’t believe this happened to me. How the mighty have fallen.
I love you, rollerskate. I do. You’re the best car I’ve ever had. But you’re a down payment on a Mustang and I hope you don’t hate me for that.