I was at boarding school two of the older boys thought they were
cars. I forget what species of motor vehicle, but if I were to see
them again, I am certain they both would help me recall.
Their behavior can be summarized as follows. In the morning the
engine would start. Meals were for refueling. At night they
would switch the engine off and lie beneath their mosquito nets impatient
for a new day.
Movement was more interesting.
Important to have one arm out of the window and the head back. The
other arm would manage both the steering wheel and the gear lever, while
voice represented the engine.
Except for the
inconvenience of classes, these two young men would drive around at high
speeds all day, pausing now and then for the occasional engine repair.
Sometimes they might bump into
someone. There would be a slamming of brakes. Much gesticulation
and profanity. A quick overall vehicle inspection to check for damage
before life would go on.
Once, a master fresh faced from England,
questioned the sagacity of permitting this drift into other worlds.
But remarkable in my memory is the haste with which we leapt to the defense
of these two extraordinary people.
At the end of the term they were picked
up by their parents. They did not travel in the back seat.
Instead, the boot, or the trunk, was secured open with a stick. They
climbed in and off they went, blissfully happy in a cloud of dust and engine