“Nice ride,” I said to the guy in the Mercedes parked on the other side of the gas pump. I heard him thank me.
I started filling the tank of our beaten up eight year old Kia Sedona minivan, looking ruefully at its dents and scratches and torn up paint.
“I wanna be you when I grow up,” I said.
“Who said anything about growing up?” he asked, as he got in and drove away.