The Automatic Sports Car

It was a 1989 Ford Probe. My mother bought it with her own money, and was so proud.

I turned 16 in 1994. My mother still had the Ford Probe. I drove it whenever possible. I wrecked it accidentally. Really.

Sure, I took it down the south I Street hill, infamous for it’s steepness and dangerous, blind curves. It was in neutral and I listened to Weezer’s Blue Album, to boot.

The dangerous things I was good at. The routine things, a little scratchy. You asked me to pick you up from church and I agreed. While waiting, I was sitting in neutral, revving it up to 8000rpms, and then kicking it into drive, just to see what would happen.

Well, as you know, I lost control on that last attempt. That light pole in the church parking lot was a little unexpected, huh? In addition, I’ve never seen a car go perfectly sideways like your 1989 Ford Probe did when I put it in drive.

Sorry, mom. That piece of shit was never the same after the bang up I gave it. Oh, well. It was ugly as sin.

2 Responses to “The Automatic Sports Car”
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