I like driving. I like barreling through the city streets and catching every yellow light, weaving through traffic and flooring it through the turns. I can never get anywhere fast enough.
Once, during one such race from the beach, as my blinker ticked and I searched for an opening, my passenger piped up:
“What’s the hurry, bro? What’s waiting for you up there.”
"Old death is after me," I said, "and I'm gonna out run him."
“Death isn’t chasing you," he said, "Death is waiting for you.”
“Then, I’m gathering speed,” I said. “Because when I do get to wherever Death is waiting for me, I’m gonna hit that old bastard going a million miles an hour. Why, I may well be the very last person ever to die, and the rest of you will just go on living and living, because when I meet death, I’m gonna kill that sonofabitch."
I stomped on the gas and raced through a yellow light, changing lanes in the middle of the intersection.