I used to have this car. It was old, and I drove it around when I was in high school. I got pulled over a lot. It was a black Chevrolet impala and it was loud and it attracted a lot of attention. I worked at a garage after school mopping floors, and after that I would work on my car or drive around with my best friend Carlos who jumped off a bridge once but survived. My friends had old Chevrolet cars, too, but mine was the best. Mine was big and black and looked scary. But I wasn't scary, so people liked me if they liked my car.

Some time after high school I went to college somewhere far away. I didn't bring my car there. It sat in my fathers driveway underneath a cover, and every once in a while my new best friend Gabe would drive it around to keep it from disintegrating. While I was far away from my car I walked a lot, and I got really scared because there were wars going on and it seemed like it was my fault because of all the gas I put in my car. I came home to my car and I was scared of it. I bought a different car and drove around the country for a while to try and stop being scared, but I just got more scared. My old car just sat there. When I finished driving around the country I came back home. I rented a little box and I stayed in there all day and night yelling and hitting things and marking down all my yelling and hitting with a small computer. I stayed in that box for three quarters of a year, and my car was still there, disintegrating.

It’s been a couple of years since then and I'm not quite so scared now as I was. I sold my old black Chevrolet last Monday for $2,800, to some kid from Arizona who was trying to make it as a dancer in Los Angeles. He gave up on dancing because he couldn't make ends meet and know he's going back to school. I'm not sure he should be buying a 40-year old car if he's having money problems, but that's his choice, not mine. That car was only 30 years old when I bought it. Now all I have is a thick wad of 50-dollar bills and a stupid tattoo.