Kaboom!
The preschool teachers escorting small children from cars crouched like trained detectives in the line of fire as the echo bored through the drop-off lane and ricocheted off the bricks of the brightly painted building. The Volvo-driving and minivan-maneuvering moms who were dropping off their milk-and-cereal-stained munchkins jerked around to see what was causing the racket. One woman dropped to both white panty-hosed knees on the sidewalk, clutching her little girl to her chest.
It was that loud.
For me, though, it was an everyday occurrence. It happened whenever the brakes were applied on The Bomb, my dreadfully dented 1979 Buick Regal.
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