Maybe I could jiggle the steering wheel and he wouldn’t notice
One of the rites of passage is learning to drive.
When I made it through the driver training course at high school, my dad thought it was safe for him to get in a car with me in the driver’s seat.
Unfortunately, the car he chose was his Porsche.
Talk about being puffed-up over a possession.
He had special driving gloves and a slouchy English-style driving hat.
(For a German car, shouldn’t he have had one of those cuckoo clock hats with feathers sticking up?)
Yippee ki-yay! I was going to run down this Wild West story and ride it to the big time
As mentioned in I Become a Crawling Thing, for a while I used to be what’s called a freelancer.
Basically, you’re a journalistic tumbleweed. You roll around trying to find an editor to hire you for an assignment at whatever pitiful pay you can get.
Scrounging for dollars back in the day, I rolled into a chamber of commerce office with a big tip for the magazine editor. One of my relatives had other relatives who claimed that one of their kinfolk actually knew Billy the Kid, the legendary western gunslinger.
This wasn’t my classroom, but it takes me back to that day
Do you ever wonder about somebody from back in your school days . . . and how they turned out?
Probably the one I’ve wondered about the most is Bub. A bully.
Because of what somebody said about him.