Mickey gushed. “It’s okay,” I said, trying to sound cool and casual. “Just okay?” he said as he gestured to the cars all around us in the parking lot. “For you this must be like dying and going to heaven.” “I guess it is a little bit better than okay,” I admitted. All around us, filling every spot in the Burger Barn parking lot, were some of the hottest cars in the city. There were Acuras and Hondas, North American muscle cars—Camaros, Vettes, Mustangs—and fancy Europeans like BMWs and Audis. It seemed like every car I’d ever drooled over was sitting here in the parking lot. Some of the cars had their hoods open, showing off their engines. Others were sitting there, idling away, so people could hear the music coming out from under the hood. Lots of people were sitting in their cars, but just as many were standing beside their vehicles. Sometimes you’d see somebody with a cloth, polishing up their paint job. There were also groups of people—mostly guys—all talking about the same thing, cars.
