DREAMIN' I usta dream of fast cars, dual 4 barrel carbs juicin' dem horses to sprout wings an' fly over the 40th street bridge past Baldy Mountain all the way to god-knows-where-Mars, PA. The car was always candy apple red, sometimes a Ford, sometimes a Buick. Then one day Franusz drives up in one a dem California custom kit cars-- chrome everywhere blindin' you in sunlight, glass packs soundin' like the 4th of July, layin' rubber all the down Foster street. We ain't seen nothin' like it. Candy apple red and lookin' like it oughta be in a movie. Boss, bad, big daddy cool. Word gets around an' Saturday 3 a.m. they block the bridge. I sneak out the window that night, hike the five blocks to where engines is revvin', headlights flashin'. Four of them--a low ridin' Merc, souped up Chevy, a new DeVille, an' Franusz's sweet piece. Somebody drops a quart beer bottle an' they's off, rubber burnin'.  The Merc fishtails, slammin' the curb, sparks runnin' a good fifty yards.   The Chevy and Deville neck an' neck, an' Franusz with all that glitz an' all that brag is a long, long way back.