After an exhaustive night at Putt Putt Golf in Mobile, I headed north for home. I took the Celeste Road exit off Interstate 65 in my mother’s blue 1977 Pontiac station wagon (every teenagers’ dream car). The floodlights from the new 7-11, about a half-mile away, were working well. I stopped and made the left-hand turn west towards our house. I didn’t mind the lights. It had taken years for this new little store to get here, so a little bright light wasn’t a big deal. With the store, I felt that we were at least getting close to the 20th century. There was a full-service grocery store probably a mile down the road towards town. But it didn’t have the stuff that mattered to 17-year-olds like me,…