Damn, it's still cold.
If it wasn't for that obnoxious noise from that rubber-bumper with the
New York plates I might not have ever woken up. What a jerk though!
Honking, misaligned headlights, and, of course, that extended arm and,
through the glare of the damn light, I could just make out the finger.
New York Plates. Typical. To think we used to be able to shoot them on
the bridge before they could ever muddy our side of the Mighty 'Mo. So
we take down the little blue flags. No stars and bars. Now NAFTA and
tool chests full of pot-metal metric wrenches. Progress. Too bad spotted
owls don't thrive on ozone.
I sit up and stretch. Brush the twigs and cigarette butts off my
backside. Hike up the wranglers so the wind will quit howling down the
rear vent crack. Tuck the T-shirt back in. With a shiver I pull the
mackinaw tight around me. Hide the T-shirt slogan: "I'd rather be
pushing an MG than driving a Triumph." Well, I was ready for a new
shirt anyway.
The C/GT is still where I left it. The crummy Lucas alternator still
refusing to resuscitate the dinky battery crammed deep in its bowels.
Now I remember why I'm here. Stupid cars.
I try to cross the street but here comes another one of those damn
hair-dressers in that Jap poser. Another Miata. Like a Fiat Spyder after
liposuction. No I don't want your help. Yes that is, in fact, a British
car at the curb. No, you cretin, I have no idea if I get better stereo
separation in a coupe -- I have a once popular item known as a motor to
sing to me. It often starts.
Oh gawd, a wintergreen air freshener dangling from the mirror. "Thank
you for not smoking..." Too late. Not my fault. The spit-shine
reflecting the arctic sun; the early morning onslaught of mindless
chatter; the smell of wintergreen mixed with the sulfurous stench of its
exhaust. I wretch.
Whew. That takes care of about half of that flat British ale. Moron
shouldn't have had the top down in this weather anyway. I'm sure Pep
Boys still carries those "moo-cow" seat covers so the Miata will be back
to styling in no time.
I've got to keep moving. Crossing the street I come to an alley. Slip in
and grab one of the stray cats out of the dumpster. Like a dish rag, I
use the cat to clean off the few bits of spittle and phlegm that didn't
quite make it into the Miata. With a firm grip on it's head I'm
q-tipping out a little earwax with its tail when I see the scar. This
cat has had a hard life. The skin has grown over but their is no hair.
Above the tailbone I can just make it out in reverse script: "GOWOM"
I'm finally in the bank. I carefully line up the half-dozen Visa cards
for the approval process. It seems like hours but I finally have the
cashier's check. To hell with the car I'll take the bus to the final
destination.
I hope it's still there. Ah, yes. The next affliction. More than I've
ever had to pay before. But at least this kind holds its value. And a
proper frame, too. It ain't held up by its sills like I'm used to. The
doors open without sticking. Fully independent suspension. Almost 90's
technology! Wood dash, cool. And another roadster.
Maybe she will let me back in the main bedroom again if it is a
convertible.
Onward into the blizzard.
Happy Thanksgiving
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