"No power!", he says, laughing, throwing his hands up.
Handsome man, mid-1960s Thunderbird, westbound on Interstate 8 in the afternoon sun. Someone he knows pulls alongside and, windows down, they carry on a rolling conversation for a mile or so. Even his little son, not more than five, knows what a bad idea that is. As he apologizes for his car all the way to the I-5 interchange, and their parting of the ways.
She tells a story about me imitating him as I was just learning to talk. "That son-of-a-bit don't know how to dwive..." After 40 years she still laughs.