The Jaguar X/F is twenty days new. It’s midnight-blue, sleek, and alluring, a present from Mr. Friday to me, but he seems to drive it all the time. He takes Backlot Road into town, which is a weaving, half gravel and half tar mess with potholes the size of Mt. Rushmore. Mr. Friday is speeding, hitting everything in sight.
Although Backlot Road is more like a cow path instead of a borough road, the view is extraordinary: green-gray waves mingle behind the sappy pines on our left side; a morsel of sandy beach welcomes summer walkers; and bright sunshine sprinkles between pine limbs. To our right are a few entrances to multi-million dollar homes. Thick pines and various foliage conspicuously hide the edifices. In truth, Backlot Road is a postcard waiting to be purchased. One of Erie’s glamor
