This is part one of a four-part series at The Slice called "End of the Road," about America's waning love affair with car culture.
A few months ago, posters for Mad Men’s final season began to pop up in magazines and on bus stops. In one, Don Draper is sitting in a sun-dappled, slate-colored car—perhaps already driving, perhaps getting ready to drive, into the dawn of the 1970s. It’s the way we want to remember him: He has the same Brylcreem coif, same cigarette hanging carelessly from his fingers, same stoic stare and same furrowed brow. For a moment, we forget that beneath the artifice is the poor, terrified son of a prostitute. In this impossibly beautiful car, his hand on the wine-colored steering wheel, he’s every inch the sexy, fearless, dick-swinging man’s man, speeding toward the future’s endless possibilities.
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