I started laughing. Couldn't stop. It was the kind of laugh that comes from disbelief and arrogance getting drunk together.
The streets got more familiar as I drove deeper into Lincoln Heights — my neighborhood. Or, well, the museum exhibit formerly known as my neighborhood. I was so far above this tax bracket now my accountant called it "voluntary nostalgia."
The Phantom drew eyes the way gravity draws planets. People stopped mid-conversation to stare. Cars slowed down, phones came out, necks craned for a glimpse of whoever the hell thought it was okay to bring a four-hundred-thousand-dollar car into a zip code where most people's cars had prayers instead of warranties.
It was wrong. Wrong neighborhood. Wrong universe. Like a UFO parking at Dollar General.
And I fucking loved it.
