Taking Her Home

Charlie

Benji’s house wasn’t really what I expected. Although I didn’t really know what to expect. He had an unreadable air about him when it came to trying to figure out the more personal details about his life. He didn’t behave like a street racer or conform to what my idea was of a man who spent his time participating in an illegal underground racing ring in New York City. He ran a shelter for troubled youths for crying out loud.

His house was quaint and simple but inviting. It was one level with a black roof and white siding that looked pretty fresh. His front yard was tiny but not the smallest I’d seen in New York City; I could probably lie down on the patch of grass and have it end at the top of my head and bottom of my feet.

He had no garage, but rather a carport. Around the side of the carport was a chain link gate which opened up into the backyard where I could see a detached shop around back, probably used for fixing up cars back in his racing days. On the other side of the