We had been cruising in a work of art on wheels, the vintage Mercedes-Benz convertible, which father nervously waves off as “my father-in-law’s car” (they bought it with money he left them) to deflect the damning stares of church friends. We were paused at a stop light in Lake Geneva, the crosswalks bordered by local losers and out-of-towners. One such woman, from her curb of enlightenment (aka envy) cracked semi-drunkenly, “it’s going to rain tonight,” and her partner-in-criticism chuckled. I was only deciding which one:

A) “Who told you that? A bottle of Jack Daniels?”
B) “Then where’s your umbrella, saddlebags?”
C) “Here’s hoping it’s men, not cats and dogs – but I guess either way, you’ll have someone to take home.”

Then I remembered that anti-drug commercial and I ignored them. And anyway, at this point in the evening nothing could break our stride – pushing 80 on country roads, playing the original X-Men arcade game for forty-five minutes, talking real estate; we were unstoppable. My father is still magical – adulthood, parenthood, these are states he has stepped in and out of like a shower after swimming. We drove home, and the radio and I sang “Rocket Man”, interrupted by the occasional nanosecond nap.