Harry owned a dilapidated Chevy S-10 the color of s**t brown. The beast had over two hundred miles on it, clanked, squeaked, and made the most obnoxious noises as it huffed along Backway Road, along Lake Erie. Harry, I learned, loved the Chevy, a hand-me-down from his older brother, Hubert, before Hubert moved to London, England.
“Do you have insurance on this beater?” I asked Harry, possibly insulting the man, and his vehicle, bouncing up and down on the dilapidated dirt road.
“Yes. It’s state law. You know that.”
The truck lurched, made a grinding noise under my feet, and wheezed, none of which seemed to faze Harry. He drove happily along the northwest side of the lake, humming, always so pleasant. In doing so, he said, “Thanks for letting me spend some time with you this afternoon, S
