During the summer I was 17 about five of us made frequent trips to a town near the beach in New Jersey called Somers Point. Only two or three went at any one time, though we each went often enough. The only person who made every trip was Bob Wharton. He was older than the rest of us by several years, just returned from three years in the Marines. He had more money than the rest of us, who were still for the most part dependent upon our parents, and of course more freedom. The car we used was almost always his.

It was a grey Dodge sedan, an utterly anonymous-looking car. But it had air conditioning and push button windows even in 1959, and an oversized engine—one that had been designed for a bigger, heavier car. Bob kept sandbags in the trunk to steady the Dodge, but when he really put his foot to it, the car would veer and shimmy at the start of acceleration; and cruising at high speeds, you knew you were going too fast, but you knew too that the car would go much faster, that the engine wasn't straining, that whatever strain you felt came in fact from holding back.

Bob was an extraordinary driver, with quick reflexes that let him drive a little faster, turn or stop a little later than other people, so that driving with him always had about it an unsettling unfamiliarity. He drove slouched in the seat, small hands cupped loosely on the bottom of the wheel. He had a long flat face, the hairline already receding in two sweeps, and, whether by calculation or nature, his eyes were held narrowed in a slight squint.