A Hold On The Wheel Sisel Gelman
It started off with a mint-colored Cadillac.
As much as I would’ve liked to say I knew it was a 1956 model, I couldn’t. I was a car enthusiast, but I wasn’t as well versed in older cars as I would’ve liked to be. This particular Cadillac caught my eye when it stopped at my toll booth because it had been restored to its original glory. It was beautiful. The fresh wax shone like the sun and the engine purred softly. It knew it was loved by its owner.
Who wouldn’t have remembered that car or the man sitting in it?
The man inside was in his late twenties, with a defined, straight nose; well-groomed, wavy brown hair; a set of perfect, pearly white teeth framed behind a wide smile. Although he had sunglasses on, and I couldn’t see his eyes, I could tell he knew I wanted his car and I wanted to be him— everybody did. Even forty years ago, when I was his age, I didn’t look like that or drove such a car. He gave me six dollars and blew a big bubble with the gum in his mouth. It popped loudly. “Keep the change,” he said with that memorable smile of his.
I dreamed of Mr. Mint’s Cadillac that night. …
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