Rims to rubber.
I lean against the shiny red sports car and discuss horsepower with Sparks, my mind filled with engine specs.
His RX8, Sparks tells me happily, has 238 hp at 8500 rpm; I am appropriately impressed. I consider mentioning the Veyron 16.4 as a point of comparison, but decide against it. Sparks continues fueling the tank and I tell him we should go through the car wash. This one, at a gasoline station at William Cannon and Brodie, is particularly good. He nods; he'll give it a shot.
The wash begins with a tire-cleaning spray from below, and we discuss whether or not it will be effective. Again, as a point of comparison, I tell him about the time Duder took the tires off my car, one by one, hauled them down to the end of the driveway, and scrubbed them, rims to rubber, till they gleamed--then put them all back on after they dried. Sparks is astounded. "Why the heck did he do that?," he asks. But I had never thought about it; I think he just likes cleaning cars, I reply. Sparks chuckles. "No one likes cleaning cars that much. He must really, really dig you."
I am dismayed at my lack of insight. Duder's life is an exercise in understatement. He goes to great effort to help those he cares about, and greater effort still to ensure that the things he does go unnoticed. I have been so attuned to the overt nature of my feelings that I have failed to recognize the covert nature of his actions. With Duder, the what is a direct reflection of the why. His actions convey as much about what is in his heart as anything I could ever write about what is in mine. Ensconced in my way of communicating, I have failed to hear what Duder has been saying.
The car wash finishes now, and we drive away in the shinier red sports car. And still I discuss horsepower with Sparks, though my mind is now filled with other things.
His RX8, Sparks tells me happily, has 238 hp at 8500 rpm; I am appropriately impressed. I consider mentioning the Veyron 16.4 as a point of comparison, but decide against it. Sparks continues fueling the tank and I tell him we should go through the car wash. This one, at a gasoline station at William Cannon and Brodie, is particularly good. He nods; he'll give it a shot.
The wash begins with a tire-cleaning spray from below, and we discuss whether or not it will be effective. Again, as a point of comparison, I tell him about the time Duder took the tires off my car, one by one, hauled them down to the end of the driveway, and scrubbed them, rims to rubber, till they gleamed--then put them all back on after they dried. Sparks is astounded. "Why the heck did he do that?," he asks. But I had never thought about it; I think he just likes cleaning cars, I reply. Sparks chuckles. "No one likes cleaning cars that much. He must really, really dig you."
I am dismayed at my lack of insight. Duder's life is an exercise in understatement. He goes to great effort to help those he cares about, and greater effort still to ensure that the things he does go unnoticed. I have been so attuned to the overt nature of my feelings that I have failed to recognize the covert nature of his actions. With Duder, the what is a direct reflection of the why. His actions convey as much about what is in his heart as anything I could ever write about what is in mine. Ensconced in my way of communicating, I have failed to hear what Duder has been saying.
The car wash finishes now, and we drive away in the shinier red sports car. And still I discuss horsepower with Sparks, though my mind is now filled with other things.