The name begs for a joy-ride, a trip to in-betweens, so you play the gas pedal like an organ, a sustained and steady chord. Rev the engine at red lights till a souped-up Malibu growls back. Burn rubber past car dealerships and sad little graves, big box stores and malignant plazas. For once you’re the greaser you aren’t, with proof: brylcreemed hair and twelve unpaid tickets crumpled on the dash. The thirteenth officer won’t catch you, but your payment due date is up. Cumulus clouds detonate above. Always a bad sign: your carburetor will keep failing, vaporizing less and less. Your float bowl is empty, valves mucked with corrosives. At lunch you eat nothing and it eats you. Soon sirens lure you back to the road. Go on, the map shows a vanishing point, a black dot, just ahead.