Mr. Grove’s advanced English class began after lunch period. It was held in the last bungalow at the farthest end of the row of temporary classrooms bordering the school’s unpaved spillover parking lot. Even though my cheap boxy import car would be coated with dust, I always parked it in front of Mr. Grove’s classroom so I wouldn’t have far to walk when the bell rang. I’d eat a greasy slice of pizza or mystery meat taco while listening to cassettes on the stereo I’d installed in the car. I’d also mounted an equalizer below the dashboard ashtray and cut holes in the doors for my eight-inch coaxial speakers. The speakers prevented the hand cranks from fully lowering the door windows, but the inconvenience was worth being able to play my music loud – songs asking questions I most cared about, sung by soulmates I’d never meet:
Am I experienced?
What’s so funny about peace, love and understanding?
Is she really going out with him? And of course, and always:
Who are you?
One day I was listening …
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