I Stole My Neighbor’s Vintage Sports Car — And Drove Straight Into My Brother’s Best Friend

Part 1

I never told a single soul about what I did during the sweltering summer of 1979.

I was fifteen years old, living in the desert town, and practically suffocating from suburban boredom.

Every evening, I would walk home from my buddy’s house just as the desert heat finally began to break.

The neighborhood was quiet, filled with manicured lawns and identical driveways.

But one house always caught my attention.

My neighbor owned a pristine, cherry-red sports car.

It was a masterpiece of machinery, parked under a carport like a museum exhibit.

I would always slow my pace when I walked past it.

A single hot July night, I noticed something glinting in the pale street light.

I stopped dead in my tracks.

A single silver key was sticking halfway out of the driver’s side door lock.

People really did feel safer back then.

I looked up and down the empty street.

There was no sign of life anywhere, just the distant hum of a neighbor’s air conditioning unit.

My pulse started thrumming in my ears.

I told myself I just wanted to see what the interior smelled like.

I reached out and turned the key.

The door unlatched with a heavy, satisfying mechanical click.

I slid into the driver’s seat.

The cabin smelled of rich leather and faint gasoline.

I wrapped my hands around the steering wheel and closed my eyes.

I imagined the engine roaring to life.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I pulled the key from the door and slid it into the ignition.

I turned my wrist.

The inline-six engine roared to life, shattering the quiet desert night.

I threw it into gear and rolled out of the driveway without turning on the headlights.

I drove all around the valley that night.

The windows were rolled down.

The hot wind rushed through my hair.

I felt entirely untouchable.

I was completely intoxicated by the power of the machine beneath me.

This car was too beautiful to be treated to a cheap joyride.

After three hours of tearing down empty desert highways, reality began to set in.

I navigated back into my neighborhood.

I parked the sports car in the exact same spot at four in the morning.

I even checked the tire alignment to make sure it matched how I found it.

But as I stood outside the car, a new thrill washed over me.

I slipped the key into my pocket.

I figured the owner would assume he just misplaced it somewhere in his house.

And I was entirely right.

A couple of weeks later, the urge returned.

I snuck out of my bedroom window.

I crept down the block and slid right back into the sports car.

I did the exact same thing.

I drove through the dark streets, listening to the purr of the engine.

But this time, I noticed the fuel gauge dipping precariously close to empty.

I knew I had to cover my tracks.

I pulled into a dimly lit gas station on the edge of town.

I paid in crumpled dollar bills from my allowance.

I filled the tank and drove it back.

The adrenaline was becoming an absolute addiction.

I was getting way too comfortable.

About a week later, I pushed my luck to the absolute limit.

The desert was too flat, too predictable.

I was dying to drive this incredible car on real mountain roads.

I took the sports car out and aimed it toward the high lake.

The climb was exhilarating.

The temperature dropped as I wound my way up the treacherous curves.

I pushed the car harder, feeling the tires grip the asphalt.

It was an absolute blast.

I felt like a professional driver conquering the world.

Eventually, the high altitude air made me incredibly thirsty.

I pulled into a tiny, rustic gas market near the lake.

Gravel crunched beneath the tires as I parked.

I left the engine ticking softly as it cooled.

I walked inside, the bell above the door jingling cheerfully.

I grabbed an icy glass bottle of soda from the back cooler.

I turned around to head to the register.

My blood ran entirely cold.

Standing right in front of the counter was my older brother’s best friend.

He stared at me.

He looked out the dirty plate-glass window at the vintage sports car.

He knew with absolute certainty that I was fifteen and did not possess a driver’s license.