The Mustang
The convertibles were out in force. There was a gasping sense of exhilaration as the New England fall meted out what promised to be the last of the warmth. It was like opening one's mouth in the wind--breathtaking in a way you could taste. I was driving my own non-open vehicle to a birthday party with The Boss when I saw a 60s era Mustang in the distance. It was as red as an apple and ten times as shiny. Chrome accents gleamed in response to the fine-grained sun that only October optimism could produce. I saw a driver and three passengers. The two in the back were fidgety, their heads bobbing with excess energy and the wind. As I pulled up alongside the rolling piece of Americana, I tried to steal a closer glance. There was a middle aged man--late 40s, maybe--in the driver's seat and an elderly one to his right. Two teenagers sat behind them. I was quickly found out; the driver looked over almost as soon as I did. I considered waving or giving the thumbs-up sign but ended up tu