Andy liked to drive fast.  Always.  I was in the passenger seat as Andy sped down a stretch of Good Hope Road in his second car (we were only seventeen): a used, coffee-colored hatchback.  It was gray and sunless outside, a bone-chilling Pennsylvania winter afternoon.  I clutched at my door handle and stiffened in fear.

“Is my driving scaring you?” Andy asked with a smile.

“No, it’s cool,” I stammered.

I peeked at the speedometer—70mph.  We were on a narrow, woods-flanked road with a speed limit of 35mph.  Fortunately, I guess, cops rarely patrolled this stretch of road because there was nowhere for them to hide.  On our right was a steep, wooded and weed-choked embankment; on our left a steel guardrail and some houses on stilts.

As luck would have it, we soon approached a slow-moving car from behind.  Too treacherous to pass, Andy merely cursed the presumably (to Andy) female-driven car:

“God, I can’t believe this bitch!” Andy said.

Inwardly, I sighed with relief as Andy slowed his car.  But then, a side road appeared on the right, and Andy punched the gas and made a wild right turn.  He laughed as we bounded up the steep hill.

“Jesus,” I said.  “You drive like a maniac.”

“I know,” he said, and laughed again.  “I’ve never gotten a ticket, though.  I’ve wrecked twice, but I’ve never gotten a ticket.”

Seconds later, Andy took a sharp left turn and we drove over a short bridge.  Now, for those of you not accustomed to colder climates, bridges usually freeze before the rest of the road (see HowStuffWorks for an explanation).  Now on this day, the roads were fine, but this bridge was icy as all get out.

Immediately, Andy’s car fishtailed and the car swerved to the left.  Through the front windshield, I could see us headed directly towards a guardrail.  I shut my eyes.  Andy grabbed the wheel and spun it in the opposite direction.  We swerved again; now I was looking at a tree.  Andy spun the wheel again—I thought I was going to come out of my seat and I swear at certain moments I could somehow see out the back window.  Now I was looking at a telephone pole.  We served again and this time we reached the grass alongside of the road where we faced a row of about seven mailboxes.  In my mind’s eye I envisioned Andy’s car mowing down all seven mailboxes, sending them spinning into the air before we sped off and never looked back.

Fortunately, however, Andy somehow managed to stop the car back in the middle of the road, perpendicular to traffic.  We sat in silence for a few seconds, catching our breath.  Then I started laughing.  I doubled over in laughter.  I thought I was going to throw up.

“Shut the fuck up, asshole!” Andy said.  He punched me in the arm.

“Stop! Stop!” I said, still laughing, envisioning what it would have been like to see Andy’s car swerve back and forth across that road.

Finally, I stopped laughing.  “Jesus,” Andy said, “That was fucking ridiculous.”  And we drove home.

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