Stop rewriting yourself to sound “more human”

The summer I turned nineteen, Tim showed up at my door with a helmet under each arm and a grin wide enough to embarrass a golden retriever.

“Come on,” he said. “The guy’s waiting.”

The guy was a semi-retired electrician named Dale who lived three towns over and had posted a faded Yamaha Vino 50 on Craigslist for $400. Tim had found the listing at midnight, texted me seventeen times in a row, and declared it “a sign from the universe” — though I suspected the universe didn’t care much about a scuffed-up moped with a cracked side panel.

We took Tim’s truck out to Dale’s place, a ranch house with wind chimes on every eave and a garage so packed with tools you had to turn sideways to move through it. Dale rolled the Vino out into the driveway with the quiet pride of a man handing over something that had served him well.

“She starts first pull, every time,” Dale said. “Long as you prime the choke.”

Tim nudged me with his elbow. I handed Dale the cash — four worn twenties and the rest in tens — and that was that. I owned a moped.

I didn’t know how to ride it.

This fact became apparent approximately thirty seconds later when I lurched forward, squeezed the brake too hard, and nearly sent myself over the handlebars in Dale’s driveway. Dale watched from his porch without visible concern. Tim laughed so hard he had to sit down on the truck’s bumper.

“You’re doing amazing,” he wheezed.

“How’s school going?” he asked.

“It’s good,” I answered.

Tim and I passed houses that became more and more dilapidated. He broke the silence, “Where did you find this thing?”

“The classifieds.”

“How much does he want for it?”

“One-hundred and eighty dollars.”

I told him the address again. Eventually, we arrived at a house that was even more worn than the others in that part of town. As his car carried us up the crumbling driveway, I saw it, and I checked to make sure I still had my money in my pocket for the fourth time. It was the most money I had ever had with me at one time. I earned it by mowing and moving wood and planting trees during summers and Saturdays during the school year. Tim parked his car, and we got out. A young man sauntered from the worn house in old clothes. He reeked of cigarettes. He gestured to the moped and a box of grimy spare parts as if we needed help finding them and stated, “Here it is. It ain’t much, but…”

The faded black moped sported pink trim on the seat, and a peeling conglomeration of flashy stickers were stuck to one side. A muffler from a much faster machine jutted out of the other side through a hole crudely cut in the plastic body. A red basket was tethered to the back by way of a bungee cord colored red, white, and blue. Fastened to the very front was a Honda emblem from a real car, and zip ties kept a yellowing Gatorade bottle with the top cut off, a makeshift cup-holder, attached to the inside of the front panel. “May I ride it around?” asked Tim.

“Yeah, go ahead.”