Chapter 5.Chapter 5. Love: Rafael and me I was about a bit less than midway between Savannah, Georgia and the turnoff to Charleston, South Carolina, headed north on I- 95. It was an unusual time of day. There few trucks or cars on the road because it was close to lunchtime. I still had a long way to drive that afternoon and already I was sleepy. I almost didn't see the boy. He was standing by the side of the road, near one of the overpasses that occur every mile or so as the inlets and rivers forge inland from the coast. I was doing close to 85 m.p.h., sitting back in the leather Recarro seat of my Porsche 928, listening to my favorite ancient-history Rolling Stones tape, and holding the steering wheel with two fingers while I played the guitar, or rather pretended to play. The music was about 20 decibels higher than the human threshold for auditory pain, the necessary volume to get a mental high from the Stones. I glanced at the kid as he blurred past and just caught the slight movement of his thumb as he gestured. For an instant I was unsure whether I should stop. I was miles from anywhere and it probably wasn't a good idea to go around picking up young kids by the side of the freeway. Nonetheless, I stomped on the brakes and tightened both hands on the wheel, simultaneously checking in the rear-vision mirror to see whether anyone was close behind me. There wasn't a car in sight behind and there was only one car in front and it was probably a mile or so ahead. A Porsche under hard breaking gives an incredible feeling. |