5.7 Liter Supersport :: English Literature Essays

5.7 Liter Supersport Finally! Almost there. I’ve been in this pick-up truck driving to work for the past 20 minutes, yet it seems like hours and hours have passed. It’s really hot outside and this old truck doesn’t even have air conditioning. Anyways, the reason why I’m riding in this broke down pick-up truck is because my dad is giving me a ride to work, his liquor store. Now I already know what everyone is probably thinking, â€Å"18 year-old guy without a car, still having daddy take you everywhere.† Well, not anymore because I’m meeting this â€Å"gentlemen† for a test-drive on his really nice car. â€Å"O.K. dad, you don’t have to slow down before even getting in the parking lot. I know you’re just trying to delay the task at hand, huh† â€Å"Shut up Sunny, your ass could wait a few more seconds can’t it †¦and one more thing, don’t act so desperate in front of the guy, O.K.? Make him want to sell you the car, not you desperately wanting it.† This right here is very typical of my dad to try giving me advice. He does it every chance he gets. So just like every other situation, I give him my usual reply. †Aright pops; quit trippin’; I got this, aight?† My dad just laughs pulling into a parking spot right in front of our liquor store. It’s in a pretty rough area. The area has been known for its weekly shootings by the local gang-members. To the side of the store I notice the car out of the corner of my eye. It looks just like the picture I saw on the internet. I get out of the truck faster then Marion Jones sprinting so I can have a better look at the fine piece of machinery. My dad goes into the store to look for the guy. From just looking at the car, my heart is melting. I could stare at this car for days. A 2001 Chevy SuperSport Camaro, a Corvette powered sports-car that was going to be mine. I’ve been researching this car for the last three years, and now I finally have earned the opportunity to buy this car. Now what was it my dad was telling me? Oh that’s right, to not let him see me drooling over the car. I know that Jim told me he wants to sell his car for twenty-eight thousand five hundred dollars, but it seems a little steep.