When I was sixteen, my father believed in two things:

Keeping my mother happy and keeping the lawn under control.

He presented himself as a Christian, especially when my mother was within earshot. Whether this was deep religious conviction or a survival technique developed over twenty years of marriage, I was never quite sure.

Every Saturday morning he would stand at the kitchen window with a cup of coffee and quietly monitor the spiritual condition of our grass.

“Cut the strip between our place and Dwight’s too,” he’d say. “It’s the neighborly thing to do.”

Now Dwight was twenty-three, owned three sleeveless T-shirts, and believed himself to be God’s gift to women, internal combustion engines, and human conversation.

He lived next door with his mother, who chain-smoked and referred to him as “my little entrepreneur,” despite the fact that Dwight’s only visible business activity involved leaning against his car and scratching himself.

His car was a faded green compact imported from somewhere in Europe where apparently people enjoyed suffering.

Dwight worshipped that automobile.

He washed it twice a week and discussed gas mileage the way scholars discuss Shakespeare.

“Thirty-two miles to the gallon,” he’d announce to anyone trapped nearby.

This was during an era when cars got roughly eleven miles to the gallon and considered it a major achievement not to explode.

Meanwhile I was sixteen, terrified of girls, and not allowed to own a car because my father believed teenage boys with automobiles immediately turned into Elvis Presley.

Dwight sensed weakness in me the way sharks sense blood.

“When you gonna get laid, kid?” he’d ask while I cut both our lawns in ninety-degree heat.

I usually responded by pretending to be deeply interested in dandelions.

One afternoon Dwight began bragging again about his miracle car.

“Thirty-two miles to the gallon,” he said proudly.

“No way,” I said.

“Way.”

“Not unless you push it downhill.”

He smirked.

“You wanna bet?”

It was ten dollars.

In those days ten dollars was roughly equal to the gross national product of Belgium.

So the contest began.

Dwight filled the tank completely while I watched.

Then he drove around for several days with a notepad on the seat beside him like a scientist attempting to cure polio.

Every evening he’d report the numbers.

“Unbelievable mileage,” he said.

My father became concerned immediately.

“You boys shouldn’t gamble,” he said, in the tone he used when my mother was nearby.

My mother became concerned spiritually.

“Wagering leads to darkness,” she said.

My father nodded solemnly, as if he had not once bet on whether a moth would fly into a Coleman lantern.

Meanwhile Dwight’s mileage numbers kept climbing.

Thirty-three.

Thirty-five.

Thirty-eight.

The mechanic from down the street came to inspect the vehicle.

“Never seen anything like it,” he muttered.

Soon neighbors wandered over to admire the car.

Dwight stood beside it with folded arms while people peered under the hood as if it were a holy artifact.

One old guy suggested contacting General Motors.

Another thought Dwight might win a science award.

By now the car was allegedly getting seventy-five miles to the gallon.

Seventy-five.

At that point the vehicle was essentially violating several laws of physics.

Dwight became unbearable.

He strutted around the neighborhood like he had personally solved the energy crisis.

“You know what this means?” he said one afternoon.

“No,” I said.

“The Japanese may try to buy this technology.”

“You should probably alert the Pentagon.”

“I just might.”

My father grew increasingly suspicious.

“You better not be fooling around with that car.”

“I don’t intened to, Dad.”

“You better not take any gas out of it? That’d be dishonest.”

“Yes sir.”

He lowered his voice.

“And if your mother asks, I gave you a strong Christian warning.”

Dwight eventually installed a locking gas cap.

That only made the mystery larger.

A month later the mileage climbed past eighty miles per gallon.

People were astonished.

One man actually removed his hat while looking at the engine.

A representative from the dealership came by and took notes.

Dwight soaked in the attention like a houseplant in a rainstorm.

Then one afternoon they conducted an official test.

Carefully supervised.

Scientific.

Precise.

And suddenly the miracle vanished.

The car got seventeen miles to the gallon.

Eighteen on the highway.

Dwight looked stunned.

The mechanic looked betrayed.

The dealership representative looked like he needed a drink.

And my father looked directly at me.

“I know what you did.”

“You do?”

“You siphoned gas out of that car.”

“No sir.”

“Then how’d you do it?”

Out the kitchen window we could see Dwight standing beside his ordinary little automobile while three men argued around him.

I took a sip of milk.

“I never took any gas out of it.”

My father stared at me for a very long time.

Then his eyes narrowed.

“You rascal,” he said quietly. “You figured out how to put gas into that wreck.”

I said nothing.

“That’s dishonest,” he said.

He paused.

“But extremely creative.”

Then slowly — very slowly — he began to smile.

Which was fortunate.

Because my mother had already started praying for my soul.