Sixty-five-year-old Jimmy Spaulding, a combination handy-man/petty-thief, agrees to drive an
old Grace Clark to an unknown destination in return for her not pressing larceny charges
against him.
I liked the story’s atmosphere, but felt that the author needed better
research about prices in the 60s. By my calculations, that red Mustang must have held about
70 gallons of gas—leaded gas, that is—given the price they paid for a fill-up. And
back in hippie days, teen talk should have been peppered with “cool” far more than
“like.”
Pulling back the tarp, I exposed a chromed grill and red paint. Peeling it back fruther,
careful not to drap the tarp and bugger up the finish, I found more chrome, more red
paint, and red vinyl upholstered seats. As I uncovered more and more of the car, a vague
feeling of familiarity crept over me.