3484. By the time I had driven six blocks down Broad Street
and stopped at two lights I had mastered, to a certain extent, the truck’s
clutch. Once the clutch was out all the way and the engine didn’t stall; after
I had put the thing up into second and then down into third, I knew in my heart
that Jason was right about cars, and I was wrong.
3485. There was no arguing with the feeling of the seat
pushing against your back as you pressed down on the accelerator. One listened
to the steady increasing roar of the engine.
3486. More than those things however was the engine, seeming
to count up to four over and over again as it idled at a light; the thud, thud,
thud, of a happy old oil burning engine, faithful and intelligent as a dog.
3487. We drove into the scrap metal yard and parked in front
of a huge piece of cement bordered all around with a strip of steel, like a
single huge parking space for an eighteen-wheeler.
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