Before we venture further into the Encyclopedia Badassica of my life, let's look at some of the goings-on in the world of my youth. By 1965, Uncle Sam sent troops overseas to slake his thirst for Commie blood. Scores of Fistwoodians enlisted right away. Fuck if they knew why. So far as they were concerned, when Sam called, you answered, with a rigid back and a hand to your head. By the summer of that year, farmers' boys were coming home in boxes, mothers were grieving in streets, and the town graveyard became a public forum. With the War, Malcolm X kicking the bucket, New York going dark, L.A. going stark raving goddamn mad, hard drugs trading hands, and hippies slapping tambourines, public sanity dissolved quicker than Tums in a hot tub.
But even that year had its ray of hope. The Chevrolet Corvette Stingray, to be exact. Someone in our town actually drove this gorgeous glistening chariot. One fateful day I asked myself: Why should he have that car, and not I? And in a dream, the Stingray answered: He shouldn't. I didn't need much more convincing. Besides, who would send an eight-year-old to the slammer for grand theft auto?