It Feels So Good When I Stop by Joe Pernice

same one, but in blue, from my mother’s sister Dee two Christmases earlier. Seeing Mr. Donnelly Jr. in that sweater helped me to further rest my case; it was not a sweater worn by a guy my age. Sure, Kurt Cobain made cardigans cool again, but his were beat to shit. I had the good sense to leave the tags on Aunt Dee’s gift, that way I could get more fuck-off money from a used-clothes store in Amherst. Even so, I only got ten bucks for it. Dee lived way up in North Con-way, New Hampshire, and she’s dead now anyway, so no harm, no foul.
    I moved through the chain-link corral that framed the crabgrass infield, the go-kart track, and a small prefab garage that looked new compared to everything else. The asphalt circuit was cracked and worn nearly silver. Skid marks pointed in unfathomable directions. The air smelled of salt, pine sap, and lawn mowers.
    Mr. Donnelly Jr. sneered as he maneuvered the speeding go-kart through a tight chicane. He momentarily went up on two side wheels, then slammed down without even braking. The last time I’d driven a go-kart, I was in junior high, and it was around that very track. They didn’t seem at all dangerous to me back then.
    Mr. Donnelly Jr. noticed me leaning against the fence. He eased off the gas, as if capitulating to the hard reality that his victory at Le Mans was a mathematical impossibility. He raised his be-with-you-in-a-second finger and pulled out of sight into the garage. The engine went quiet off camera. He walked toward me. I felt kind of bad because he looked like he’d been having a good time, and, really, how many good times does a guy his age have left?
    “Didn’t think anyone was coming today.” He was tall and thin. His kneecaps knocked like ball-peen hammer-heads against the inside of his pants. His cheeks were bloodshot and stained with age spots. But it was a kind face. His hands looked kind, too, but you never know. They isolated a key on a large, crowded ring.
    “Sorry to pull you away,” I said.
    “That’s what we’re here for, right?” He was the type of benevolent guy who says “It shows to go you” or, if you’re a kid, pretends his thumb is your stolen nose. He looked out over the empty go-kart track. “I still love riding them, even after all this time.” He didn’t seem the slightest bit embarrassed by the fact that he wasn’t talking about golf or bowling.
    “I don’t remember them going that fast.”
    “They don’t usually. The one I was driving has no governor on the carburetor. Someone your size”—he looked me up and down—“could do thirty-five, forty easy. Give it a go? You don’t have to open it up all the way if you don’t want.”
    “No, thanks.”
    “Come on. Give it whirl.”
    “Maybe another time, thanks.”
    “Sure,” he said. “Another time.” I think he was slightly miffed because he got down to business without making any more small talk. He looked at me, then locked the gate behind him. As we walked back toward the store, I felt like I should offer something to fill the silence, like I owed him that much.
    “I used to come here every summer with my family.”
    “Cape’s a nice place.”
    “I mean right here.” I pointed at the ground.
    “Lots of people been through here.” He bent over and picked up a flattened cardboard coffee cup that had blown onto his property.
    Okay, fuck it, I thought. I don’t want to talk, either.
    Mr. Donnelly Jr. decided to forgive and forget: “Just down for a visit? Good time of year for it. All the loonies are gone.”
    “Sort of. I’m staying with family in East Falmouth.”
    “I like East Falmouth. East Falmouth, Falmouth, Barnstable—they’re more real.” He rubbed some salt of the earth between his thumb and fingers. “Real people. Know what I mean?”
    “I think so.”
    “That’s good.” He laughed. “Because I don’t know if I know what I mean.” His teeth were neat, though not his own. We were friends again. He unlocked the side door and flung