During the Summer of 1966 I was dying of boredom. Then my cousin Alan, a handsome, James-Dean-type, pulled into our driveway in a shiny new Pontiac GTO.
I couldn’t imagine in my wildest dreams how such a magnificent car had come into my cousin’s possession.
“I have a job,” he said with a matter-of-fact tone. “I’m an assistant manager at Dick’s Sporting Goods.”