I wonder what those wishes were.
A car, probably.
More accurately, a better car than the 1976 Ford Grenada I had. The “Grenade” wasn’t a bad car, particularly for a rookie driver, because it was built like a Sherman tank only less aero-dynamic. At least it wasn’t a Pinto, a car that was high on my late ’80s list of least desirable autos. But the accelerator did have a troubling tendency to get stuck, meaning that driving became a matter of gradually putting on the brakes to get through traffic, then punching it in to swerve into the next available gas station and come to a graceless stop.
Once stopped, I’d throw the car into Park and quickly shut off the ignition, ignoring the complaining engine all the while. It was then that I could safely pop open the hood, take off my shoe, and bang the carburetor with it repeatedly. I was convinced that this was always the only way to fix the problem, a conviction reinforced by the fact that when the car started up again, the accelerator was once again a team player. Looking back, I think the shoe-based repair work was just an excuse to vent my frustrations.
So here I am, twenty years further along. Sixteen plus twenty. Gone are the pseudo-aviator shaped glasses, thank God. I’m wearing my hair longer these days, but thanks to a latter-day invention known generally as “product,” I needn’t look like I’ve just gotten out of bed 24/7. I’m no longer so skinny. But I’d like to think that I could still hold up my end of a conversation with a sixteen year old me. I know he’d fascinate me with everything he doesn’t know and all the other things he thinks he knows. You think I’m a bit of a know-it-all now?
You’ve no idea.
I wish I knew what I had in my shirt pocket. Beyond that, I wish I could step back in time just long enough to pluck out whatever that is in said pocket. Is it some kind of notebook? Well, I guess I should be grateful that it is not a pocket protector.
(Note: I’ve never owned a pocket protector.)
