High School Parking Lot: 4:37 pm
God, I loved it, I loved it. She was just beautiful. I mean, beautiful. From the front seat of my father's BMW, the window pulled down, I just blasted the stereo as I watched her run. She never even touched the ground, it seemed, dancing across the asphalt. And she was mine, all mine.
Gordy pulled her up to the car with a roar of wheels, and lovingly rubbed the gleaming black paint as he pulled off his helmet. "I finished her engine yesterday," he said. "Runs like a dream, don't it?"
I couldn't help myself. The leather seat, the perfect handlebars--even the helmet, which I would never use, were brand new. Every guy's dream was to own a Sporad 300, and not only did I have one, but I was the only dude at school who did. "Gordy, I fuckin' love you," I had to say as I hugged my motorcycle. I'd had a lot of girls, but this was the hottest. And I'd ride her. Every day, every night, everywhere.
"Tybalt." Gordy laughed as I forked over the keys to Dad's old car. "Chill, man. She ain't goin' anywhere."
"I know, I know." But how could I explain it to him? Gordy, a master mechanic, had always felt better behind the wheel then behind handlebars. The way I saw it, trading the BMW for his most recent junkyard salvage, beautifully refinished, was a deal I could never miss.
"One thing," he yelled after me as I sped away. "She ain't got a steamy backseat, if you know what I mean."