Top down. Bass thumping. Three teenagers cruising with doors off on the Jeep Wrangler in 5:00 
traffic. The one in the backseat looks at me and nods like I’m somebody’s dad. I want to tell him 
that I am somebody’s dad but I used to ride in Wranglers with the doors off, that Ben’s 
Wrangler would have raced them off the line right then and there and smoked ‘em. I want to tell 
him that I feel his pain: Ben made me ride in the backseat when his girlfriend rode shotgun. Gosh 
she was beautiful. What was her name? He would floor it and her blonde hair would fan out over 
the headrest. I’d raise my hand to the edge of her golden strands and feel electricity running 
through my fingertips. Ben caught me once and I pulled my hand back pretending to clap along 
with the song. He smiled and shook his head, then said something. I could never hear him over 
the music and the wind but always nodded in agreement. If he was here now riding shotgun in 
my Highlander, I’d ask him if he remembers the time the neighbor kid called me a bitch and he 
told him if he ever saw him looking in my direction again he’d kick his ass? No one’s stood up 
for me like that before or since. Ben, I never told anyone about the day you were late and I saw 
crumpled Miller Light cans on the floor of the Wrangler. I thought we’d be best friends a few 
years down the road, that my mom wouldn’t have to pay you to watch me anymore. I’d steal your
girlfriend but you’d forgive me and teach me how to drive a stick shift. Do you remember the last 
time we spoke? I was 15 and called to ask if you’d buy me a case of beer. I told my friends you 
would but you said no. Stay away from that shit until college, you said. I heard your friends 
laughing in the background but you weren’t joking. For a moment I wondered if she was there 
with you, laughing along, but somehow I knew she wouldn’t do that. And then somehow I knew 
she was long gone.