I watched the blazing 1950’s pickup burn its tires down the road. The neighborhood across the street buzzes with activity. Rows and rows of freshly cut grass wave in the wind. The water from a nearby fountain bounds into the air and splashes down onto the hot cement. The clubhouse sits in the middle of it all, with tan walls and a dull brown roof. A hundred cars line up one by one in rows all with sun reflecting off their hoods. Protected from each other only by thin yellow margins. There was only one car that wasn’t like the rest. Taillights smashed, windows broken, and its roof dented. It looked familiar and one last important detail caught my eye. All of its tires were burned out.