The men standing in front of the pool hall would look up and see the big black crate ghost down the street at forty, and one of them would spit on the concrete and say, "The bastard, he reckins he's somebody," and wish that he was in a big black car, as big as a hearse and the springs soft as mamma's breast and the engine breathing without a rustle.
Robert Penn Warren wrote those words about a Cadillac, in a novel set in the 1930s. Back then Caddies were what you drove to announce that you had power, which is...
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