The car, a 1987 Lincoln, had seen better days. The passenger door moaned painfully, dropping a little with a metallic pop as it yawned open all the way.
I turned to give Bob an apprehensive look. As if reading my mind, he glanced at the rusting chunk of metal parked at the curb and then to me.
"What? Is good car," he said defensively, without a word from me.
I climbed into the back seat, sliding in over the tattered upholstery. The smell of unfamiliar food filled the interior.
Bob wrestled with the door, rocking the car, finally getting it to pop in the other direction before slamming it several times to get it to catch. He ran around the front to jump behind the wheel. The engine roared to life, spewing a huge cloud of blue smoke and then died. Again, he twisted the key, pumping the gas. The engine cranked ever slower as if the battery was about to give out.
"Mother of God, Bob swears to make bathtub of you," he muttered as he continued to torture the engine in an attempt to start the metal monster. The sound of his endeavor grew weaker and weaker until he stopped altogether, throwing his huge arm over the seat.
"Is seat belt," he said flatly.
"Seat belt. Bob's friend must have on seat belt," he scolded.
"You gotta be kidding me," I griped, but dutifully snapped the belt.
He nodded with satisfaction, turning forward once more.
He turned the key, the engine jumped to life, and to my surprise, continued to run. A moment of silence was shattered as AC-DC's Highway to Hell thundered from the rear speakers.
Without so much as a backward glance, Bob roared away from the curb, catapulting us into traffic. I barely noticed the sound of screeching tires behind us as I made a mad grab for the door to balance myself. To my shock, we were doing sixty before we reached the end of the block. I stretched out my arms to each side, bracing against the wild swings as Bob wove in and out of the honking cars.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish