Eight feet of metallic silver steel. From the moment I saw her, I knew she was Neveah. I opened the door, and to this day nothing has ever been sweeter to my nostrils than the smell of her new leather interior. Turning the key in her ignition for the first time, her purring filled my ears with joy. Finally after seventeen years, I had a space that was completely mine, with full mobility too.
             After several weeks, the initial thrill of being one of the car-owning elite gave way to something far better - a sense of familiarity. Comfortable in the contours of her seat, I have no need to pretend. I can smoke like a chimney if I want, which I don't, and not have to worry about her giving me a lecture about its harmful effects. Together we can find an empty lot or just pull into any spot and unwind. As Bob Marley pulsates from the speakers we breathe a simultaneous sigh of relief. The driver's seat back, my eyes can follow the clouds through the blue tinted sunroof glass. From the wood paneling on the dashboard to the little cigarette hole in the fabric right above the passenger side seat, I know every bump and crevasse of my Neveah.
             Even better, Neveah was my ticket to freedom. From now on, I could come and go as I pleased. Sitting shotgun, my mother's hands on the steering wheel of the family mini-van, would not be necessary. Once I got her keys in my fist, it seemed that nothing was out of my reach. I could even help my parents out by getting the groceries, chauffeuring my brother, and picking up our daily fare of take-out.
             I remember the compliments we got the first time we took my friends out. Not only was Neveah the best car on the road, but, for a day, I was also the best driver. My friends and I found excuses to give her a little exercise. Go to a café out on Long Island or maybe even see a movie in New Jersey. No matter how far we would have to travel, if it meant taking my baby out of the garage,...