Before smart devices most lads aspired to astronaut or president. Sister Mary Black an’ Decker prayed that I would grow into a priest. She was a bit strange. I loved her. With her right sleeve rolled and ruler poised, her bicep damselfly tattoo smiled.

Neighborhood pals and I pooled our money buying old Mercury. Didn’t tell our parents. Hid the jalopy around the block. Tore the Merc’ down to the frame. Replaced the body with Ford Model A roadster shell which anticipated speed like a rusted sprinter. From a standstill to a smashing 60 my hot rod accelerated in third gear which was no small feat. She was my first love.

Often mom coerced my driving little sister to school. Until she broke the windshield jumping out. I still loved her. My windscreen, that’s British, was a straight plastic sheet. In case you’re wondering my roadster doors were welded shut.

I sold my first love for a song. Don’t know why. Always wanted more.

Fancied living as a cowboy, not a gangster or assassin. He was never shot, got the girl, and rode into the sunset. Didn’t own a horse. Girls avoided my shadow. I hiccupped at the hint of a gun. My ambition settled for shepherd. Remembered romantic Bible stories: King David and good shepherd, Jesus.

Answered a twentieth century shepherd’s want ad. Read: wanted used car lot jockey. Love is my copilot. Never happier except when crus’ down Woodward Ave in my old hot rod. Of course I got the job. There were no other applicants.

Made myself righteous rules. Shall make only right hand turns in the lot until I’m in desired direction. No buttered popcorn on seats. Or worse lollipops behind visors. Or heaven forbid

wurst sausage under a mat. Not only was I destined to riches but Ferrari and Porsche visions danced under my baseball cap.

Instead the lot corralled old Chevys which were goat vehicles not wanted by many. I polished and polished them goats until they became lambs. Sweat, sweet Jesus, now sour in my nostrils.

Toiled in the car lot tending my sheep. Each evening I counted 98, 99, and 100. All there. Each night laid my body across lot entrance stretching my sandaled toe to the other side. Do shepherds really dream counting sheep? No wolf robber gon’a hawk my lamb Chevys. Next night kaboom.  97, 98, and 99. Recounted, retallied, and tripled checked. Where has my Chevy goat gone?

Fighting tears I never noticed fluorescent light flickering through the amused damselfly shaped office window. Apparitions of shepherdesses in wolf clothing cavorting with my Chevy boogied under my baseball cap. But still I left 99 in search of one poor goat, my lamb.

Never found the Chevy. Eternal hope and thieves are always near. Wear my damselfly tattoo as sign of lost love.                             &&&