Chapter 3: Traditions, Tires, and Trouble

I’d just bought a used Toyota before Christmas.

Nothing fancy—just a sensible, silver sedan with a few dings from the previous owner. But to me, it felt like freedom. My dad had helped me haggle at the used car lot, and we drove it home together, his hand resting on the dash as if blessing the engine for good luck. For the first time, I felt like a real grown-up.

My dad said we should set off firecrackers to celebrate the new car, but I refused.

He’d grown up in a Midwest town where every little milestone was a reason to break out the fireworks. But now, with insurance premiums through the roof and city ordinances cracking down, I wasn’t about to risk a ticket—or my new paint job.

It’s a local tradition: when you get a new car, you lay a ring of firecrackers around it and set them off, hoping to bring good luck and drive away bad fortune. Of course, it’s a dangerous tradition and people don’t really do it anymore.

Back in the day, the older neighbors would reminisce about lining up bottle rockets around their first Fords and Chevys, smoke curling in the air and everyone clapping. But these days, the HOA would fine you faster than you could say “safety violation.”

Besides, even though our neighborhood is old, there are often a few luxury cars parked around. If I set off firecrackers for my little Toyota, it’d just be embarrassing.

There’s a dentist with a Range Rover and a retired teacher with a Tesla parked in the same lot. I wasn’t about to draw attention to myself—or have some TikTok video of my “budget celebration” go viral for all the wrong reasons.

At the time, my uncle’s family was visiting, and my little cousin overheard us.

He was eavesdropping in the hallway, ears always tuned for any mention of trouble or excitement. His eyes lit up at the word “firecrackers.”

From then on, he was obsessed with lighting firecrackers and throwing them at my car.

It became his personal mission. Every time he visited, I’d catch him lurking near my car, hands stuffed in his jacket, eyes darting to see if anyone was watching. If I scolded him, he’d flash me a gap-toothed grin and claim he was "helping."

If I caught him, he’d grin and say he was just helping me celebrate my new car.

He’d try to play innocent, but you could see the mischief bubbling just beneath the surface. Sometimes, he’d even mimic my dad’s voice: "It’s for good luck, right, cousin?"

Uncle and aunt would just laugh and say things like, "Mikey is so thoughtful, helping his cousin celebrate his new car."

They’d look on, almost proud, like he was performing some heartwarming family ritual instead of potential vandalism. I wanted to scream, but I just gritted my teeth.

"This kid’s been sharp since he was little—he remembers everything his uncle says."

They’d turn my dad’s offhand comments into gospel, as if the whole thing was a misunderstanding instead of willful chaos. I’d catch my dad’s eye across the room, but he’d just give me a tired shrug.

They were basically shifting the blame, hinting that my dad was the reason for my cousin’s mischief—that he was just being considerate.

It felt like gaslighting, in a way. Suddenly, I was the unreasonable one for not wanting my car blown up “for good luck.”

I couldn’t hold my little cousin accountable; I could only swallow my bad luck.

No matter how many times I protested, my complaints seemed to bounce right off. I started to keep spare tire patches in the glovebox, and every new dent or scorch mark just became another “funny story” at dinner.

During Christmas break, I patched my tires four times, and the firecrackers also damaged the paint, which needed to be resprayed.

Every trip to the auto shop ate into my savings. The shop owner joked that I should get a punch card—“Buy five, get one free.” My Toyota started looking like it had fought a losing battle with a fireworks stand.

Today, my uncle’s family came to visit again. From a distance, I saw my little cousin proudly taking out several firecrackers and waving them at me.

He was already hyped up—waving his “prizes” in the air like a parade marshal, big grin plastered on his face. I could see trouble brewing from a hundred yards away.

Great, here we go again—he’s up to no good.

I barely managed an eye roll before he darted behind a bush, giggling. It was almost impressive, how committed he was to his craft.

While they were heading upstairs, I quickly moved my car out of the spot.

No way was I letting him take another shot at my Toyota. I grabbed my keys and hustled out while my parents and uncle were still arguing over football scores in the foyer.

This parking spot was one my family had bought, and my car was always parked there.

It was our one luxury—a deeded spot in a packed lot, and my car’s designated safe haven. Well, supposed to be.

I decided to temporarily park at the mall next door. I’d have to pay extra, but that was better than letting the brat wreck my car.

I could already hear my dad grumbling about the five-dollar fee, but it was a small price to pay for peace of mind—and a paint job that would last until at least New Year’s.

Just as I started the engine, a brand new Porsche Cayenne drove past me. It was the Cayenne’s second time circling the lot, clearly searching for a space, but all the ground-level spots were full.

The Porsche was a head-turner—sleek, spotless, probably leased by some startup exec who’d just moved in. The driver looked frustrated, checking his phone and craning his neck for an opening.

That’s when an idea struck me.

A little voice in my head whispered, "Now’s your chance." It wasn’t my proudest moment, but desperate times and all that. I figured my cousin wouldn’t know the difference, and maybe a little scare would finally get through to him—and to his parents.

To my little cousin, a used Toyota and a Porsche Cayenne are both just black cars with four wheels—he can’t tell the difference. He only recognizes my parking spot.

To a kid, cars are all the same. I watched him once try to unlock a police cruiser with his toy key, convinced it would fit. I smirked, realizing he’d never notice the swap.

Even if I avoided trouble this time, it would just happen again in the future. Might as well let him learn a hard lesson now.

Maybe, just maybe, this would break the cycle. I rolled down my window, feeling a weird mix of guilt and vindication.

I rolled down the window and called out to the Cayenne’s owner, telling him I was heading out and the spot was open.

He beamed at me, giving a grateful thumbs-up. "Thank you, man, you’re a lifesaver!" he called back, clearly relieved to finally snag a spot.

The Cayenne owner happily took the space and parked.

He pulled in with practiced ease, engine purring, and waved again before disappearing into the lobby. I felt a tiny surge of satisfaction, then a pang of worry. This was a gamble, for sure.

As I drove out of the neighborhood, I secretly hoped the Cayenne’s owner had good car insurance.

I tried to shake off the nagging feeling in my gut. Hopefully, the guy had comprehensive coverage—and maybe a little more luck than me.