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I remember this one time—my cousin Jimmy, he had a beat-up ‘86 Escort, blue, rusty as hell. Thing sounded like a lawnmower with asthma, but it got him to his factory job every damn day. One winter, it slid into a ditch—Jimmy laughed, said, “She’s got character, Bern!” Character! Like Margot Tenenbaum smokin’ on the roof—“You’re a genius, huh?”—that’s the Escort, scrappy, real, not some polished Tesla for Elon’s buddies.

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Halfway up, I hear this loud crash. I look down, and some kid on a bike just wiped out. I’m up there, trying not to laugh, but I’m also like, “Is this my fault?” I mean, I’m the one in the tree. But hey, the kid’s fine, just a little scraped up. He gets up, brushes himself off, and yells, “Nice tree, man!” I’m like, “Thanks, kid! It’s a real beauty!”

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