The man was wearing a suit and driving an American car. Inside, there was a haze of cigarette smoke. He was leaning over the passenger’s side, his outstretched arm rolling down the window as he talked across the front seat.
It took me a moment to realize the man had said anything. His voice was a slow-motion roar over the water’s lapping at the rocks nearby. It was mid-afternoon and cool; my right leg was outstretched and my black-and-white checkered tennis shoe rested up on the dashboard. My window was down, allowing a lake breeze in for free. I had Andreas Vollenweider on the stereo.
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I decided to be cool. “Get lost,” I said, rolling shut my window and dismissing him with a wave of my hand. I cranked up my music and became intent on the skyline.
“Hey . . .” he called out.
The big gray car lumbered into the lot after me, its driver waving one arm out the window. I thundered past him in my VW, back onto Montrose Avenue and away. But he didn’t give up; with both ends of his car bouncing as he shifted gears, the man turned up the avenue and continued after me. I could see in my rearview mirror he was laughing and waving out the window.
