the way a ’50 Chevy looks if it’s been cared for. Not at all like the one my dad showed up with. It had just been traded in at the garage where he worked and appeared to have been inhabited by small rodents and a family of sheep for the past decade – black paint faded to an unmapped location between shades-of-grey and Buster Brown, glass pitted, Korean-war-era tires cracked and bald, the seats ridden hard and put away wet, and everything that could corrode corroded. But it ran. It could be mine for twenty-five bucks, and I could think of nothing else but painting those wheels red. Then, Dad mentioned registration, license, insurance, inspection, gas prices, repairs and maintenance. I bought my first motorbike instead.