As we roll along in a two-decades-old Dodge, my son winces and dreams of Mustangs.
My 14-year-old son, Anton, is as enamored of cars – especially new and flashy ones – as any boy. Whenever we're out driving, he rubbernecks continuously as he spots Camaros, Corvettes, Lexuses (Lexi?) and the car of his dreams – the Ford Mustang. These sightings are accompanied by the most impassioned commentaries ("Did you see that, Dad? The new Audi A6 – zero to 60 in 5.9!").
"Yes, yes," I nod. "I see it." This is as much enthusiasm as I can muster, 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. My Raider can also go from zero to 60 in 5.9 seconds, but it has to be an exceptionally steep downhill grade.
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. 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. He allowed this, but asked that I let him out about a block from the school so he could keep his dignity intact.