It was a light green '62 Chevy Impala. It died from a cracked engine block two years later; I didn't know from antifreeze and my father was angry—he'd gotten me the car. In ’76 I bought a rusted-out Karman Ghia convertible for $100. It had been upside-down in a field for a year, then rolled over and pushed till it started. The canvas roof was held on with duct-tape, and there were holes in the floor where you could see the asphalt. Nonetheless it felt like I was driving a sports car.

When that convertible died on the side of I-71 I didn't have another car for twenty years.