I am seven years old and holding on in the passenger side floorboard of my Papaw's Oldsmobile, a car appropriately named The Silver Streak. We are playing a game not named. It feels like he is driving one hundred miles an hour and doing doughnuts. He stops suddenly, looks down at me, grins and asks, Where are we?
I had said earlier, I know this town like the back of my hand, but now I am lost. My mental map got turned upside down after the fourth turn, quick reverse, did he circle a parking lot, I have no idea so I smile back at him and guess, We are at the school.
He laughs, Check it out.
I jump to the seat, peer outside the window and find we are on the opposite side of town at the Co-op. I let out a huge sigh of exasperation, look at him, try to figure out where I went wrong and then say, Let's do it again, Papaw! I know I can get it this time.
He smiles. I get in the floorboard and we're off again. And again.
Always, always I was wrong. I never, not once, had a clue where we were but I never gave up trying either. It would not be till Papaw was gone and I was a parent before I realized how many hours and gallons of gas he had spent at the sole purpose of entertaining me. Just him and me.
I think this is what it means to be spoiled.