Driving past windows of a gas station in a Camaro, eighteen, tattoos, lost. The smooth black surfaces outside shake with increasing speeds. It would be nice to have a speedometer that functioned. As the smell of gas begins to dry in the passing wind my confidence in the spare tire is questioned. Its small form isn’t meant for speed or distance.

Time to roll up the windows. The speed is drowning out the music and the sound system consists of four double D batteries and a portable CD player. Try not to move around too much and skip through my favorite parts. “Out here we is stoned. Immaculate.”

We left too late this time and the night has rushed in. I can tell we’re going about 90 but I can’t tell how much gas is left unless I turn off the headlights. We’re going to make it friend, from Albuquerque to home and back again. The gas gauge said half full but as I look up the last words read “Chevrolet” and were moving towards us quickly. Looking at empty beer bottles in a Camaro, eighteen, tattoos, eyes glossed.