Be Quiet and Drive

Long Island needs a drag strip. You see it on people's fenders as they lurch along Sunrise Highway, hitting red light after red light, or weaving in and out of the HOV lane on the L.I.E. No one sees the irony in this, they're apparently oblivious to the fact that the entire Island is a drag strip and they're already using it.

Drive through most any Long Island city at night and you'll encounter the speed demons—Dodge Challengers cutting you off at intersections, Yukons overtaking you in the dark, drunk girls drunk texting while driving and weaving into your lane, going sixty-five in a forty-five. No cops patrolling the main arteries—Montauk Highway/Main Street, Straight Path, Wellwood, Sunrise—with any regularity; they're all hunkered down in strip mall parking lots or getting head from cheap hookers outside 7-Elevens.

I learn all of this from Mia as she unzips one of her black mid-calf lace-up combat boots, her bare ankle flashing in the dashboard glow. She slides her leg over the console and presses a soft blue ankle sock against my shin, curling her toes to rile me up before slamming her foot down on top of mine, pinning my toes—and with them the gas pedal—to the floorboard.

The engine screams as the pedal hits the wide open throttle switch, jerking my head back against the headrest as the coupe shoots forward like a bullet and Mia completely hijacks my speed along with my will. She presses a palm to my chest and feels the erratic flutter mutate into a heavy, frantic drumming.

She presses her other hand to her mouth, touching her full, glossy lower lip, showcasing her sparkly nail polish and the shimmer of lust in her warm hazel eyes, and for a moment the road disappears and all I can see is her.

To think, we end up together because someone fucked up my order on Uber Eats.

Well, that's not all that happens.

Let's rewind.

* * *

My name's Cash. Really it's Cassius, but nobody calls me that.

Nobody calls me.

Most of my friends are still in college. The only person who calls is my girlfriend, but not now, not yet, not even a text to say, “Happy birthday, babe.”

I'm twenty-one years old and I'm totally lost. I'm supposed to be in college, pursuing a business degree, but instead I'm bobbing like a buoy in my parents' pool all day because I'm shit-scared to do anything.

I dropped out of school last year after an on-campus shooting, it just occurred to me that I wasn't willing to lose my life to get an education I never wanted in the first place. Ever since, my old man won't even look at me.

When my mom asks me what I want for my birthday, I tell her I want to take a vacation to see the world and get some perspective. When the old man hears this, he texts me: “You've had a vacation. Time to wake up and quit dreaming.”

He buys me a luxury sports coupe instead of a Europass. Because nothing says love like cold metal. He tells me it's the last thing he's giving me and I should use it wisely—to find a job and move out.

My mother's spending the day with her “friend” Randy, probably sixty-nining each other in some Econo Lodge off the interstate. The old man's out of town on one of his work things, giving a real estate investor a reach-around or whatever the fuck he does to pay his massive credit card bills.

I'm alone. Usually this doesn't bother me, but today it's a little weak. You're only twenty-one once, after all.

Rather than piss and moan about it, I decide to get stoned and order some grub. But no sooner have I opened the Uber Eats app than I get a text from my girlfriend, Ashley.

She must be planning to take me out for my birthday, I think. I bet she's gonna surprise me by getting us a limo to Tellers for salted caramel martinis and the Porterhouse for Two.

It's a good thing I'm not a betting man.

Ashley's text reads: “I can't do this over the phone wit you I'm wit josh now.”

I text back: “u n josh r where?”

Ashley texts: “no me and josh are together. it's over cash we're done.”

I don't try calling her or even texting her back. I just open the Uber Eats app and place my delivery order. Then I toss my phone on the chaise longue beside the pool and take a pull off some Bubblegum Burst.

I should be more upset, but I'm not. I haven't kicked it with Josh in a minute and Ashley's always treated me like kind of a placeholder; I never really thought we were gonna go the distance or anything. If I'm bummed at all it's because I have a brand new whip and nobody to show it off to.

The grub arrives twenty minutes later, the delivery driver comes through the side gate and walks around, but he's got ear buds in and he doesn't see me. He sets the bags down by the back door and dips.

I drag ass off the inflatable and climb out of the shallow end of the pool. By the time I reach the bags the delivery driver is long gone.

I reach inside the bag and discover my order is all wrong. They forgot my mint tea and falafel wrap.

Inside the bag I find a smash burger I didn't ask for and my chicken shawarma fries are cold. The lid is popped up on one side, suggesting the driver may have fucked with it, either snacking on the fries en route or dropping it in the driveway on his way in. Neither would surprise me.

I take one cold bite and toss it in the trash, then I peace out.

It's my first time behind the wheel of the BMW M4 coupe. The driver's seat is way more comfortable than I care to admit—premo Merino, smooth and supple, with firm padding like I'm sitting on a memory foam mattress.

The steering wheel's Alcantara wrapping gives me a velvety high-friction grip that makes me feel like I'm about to take off on a race course. I plunge the red Engine Start/Stop button and the M4 comes alive with a high-pitched whir, then the exhaust barks as the twin-turbo inline-6 fires to life.

I throw it in Drive and angle out of the circular driveway. As the front suspension meets the lip of the driveway I can feel the concrete seam telegraphing through the memory foam seat.

The tires crunch gravel as I turn out onto Main Street and zip through town. I've got no plac