Before I moved into my first apartment in my early 20s, I needed to drive about 50 miles from my hometown to pick up a few necessary furnishings. They weren’t anything crazy — a desk, a rug, a bookcase — but they were too large to fit into my car.
So my mom arranged to borrow a small pickup truck from one of her coworkers.
We set out together on a Saturday afternoon, my mom behind the wheel. We were halfway to our destination when her cellphone rang. It was the coworker. I don’t know if he had a sudden fear of us hot-rodding around the countryside on a destructive joyride or what, but he called to check in.
“What’s up?” my mom asked me.
I covered the mouthpiece. “He wants to know how the truck is working out.”
And in a moment of pure mischief and brilliance, just to mess with him, my mom replied, “Tell him she shakes a little at 90.”