I woke up when Daddy placed me on the long white plastic vinyl seat.

“Daddy, can we ride over the Cooper River Bridge?”

“Only if you behave at the hospital.”

“Mom, can I go play in the water?”

“You got to sit still first for the doctor.”

I bounced up and down on the back bench seat of the white Studebaker station wagon while my daddy drove us to Charleston.

I didn’t bounce because I was excited to go to MUSC; I bounced because I just knew something good was coming my way.

How could I know? How could I be sure? It was the law of bribery. If I listened, then I will be rewarded. Whoever said I had to play fair? Nah, not me, I’m a kid.

Trees passed by in a blur as Daddy sped towards my destiny of the day. Monster-looking cars, archaic creatures leftover from the 1950s, approached our territory.

Plymouths with the gnashing grill, Chevy Roadsters with the wing fins, all hitting brakes and stopping before I stopped bouncing and leaned forward.

An alligator, a great big gargantuan alligator, was laid across the road, sunbathing in 1969. Huh, look at those jaws gnashing.