From around the corner, a car pulls into view. It is
sleek and aerodynamic, with wide tires that hug the
ground. It has a thick grille and intakes molded into
its hood; it looks as though it could fly away if I
blink. The paint is red, almost iridescent, glittering
like liquid fire. The noise it produces strikes me a
second after its image does.
A rich roar fills my ears, as beautiful to me as a
Stradivarius sounds to a solo violinist. I believe in
cars that you can feel, and a bass tremor rumbles up
my legs as the car accelerates. The roar increases in
volume as the car accelerates and brings with it the
smell of a well-kept muscle car.
Exhaust and the faint smell of rubber follow the car
in a cloud. Standing this close to the street I can
almost smell the oil that keeps it running so
smoothly. I can barely detect the acrid taste of the
exhaust on my tongue as it speeds by, and then just
like that, the ‘69 Firebird clears the end of the
block and disappears.