Cars are proof of success. Everyone says so. Car commercials, music, TV shows, and movies all make it very clear that you need a nice car to prove you’re somebody.

Me, I’ve never had anything more than a bus pass or a bicycle. I’ve been on the shoe leather express as long as I can remember. The world is pretty huge when you’re walking, hitching, or taking public transport everywhere. Things seem different at a foot pace. Slower.

I’ve always wanted to live in the fast lane. I’ve wanted to ride around in a shiny car, with big chrome wheels, my tunes blaring out the windows, and have the ladies wanting to fuck my car.

Something fast, with loud pipes and a slick paint job. Comfortable seats, GPS, tinted windows, satellite radio, racing slicks, and dual exhaust are standard in my fantasy.

Here sits my dream car, parked in front of me. A tall man holds the keys, extending them out to me in his red right hand. He wants me to give me the car.

I’ll be in his debt, of course, but that sure is a damn fine car.