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I bought the car from a greasy, gray-haired man in tight jeans . . . the worn outline of his Skoal can tracing the right front pocket. He needed a shave, a bath and an oil change.
“Yeah, she’s a beauty, isn’t she?” he said. “Only 73,000 actual miles”
I thought, “Sure . . . and it was driven by a little old lady who only drove to church.”
Peering under the hood, I asked, “How new is the battery?”
Leaning in, his arm against mine under the hood he replied, “Well, the sticker on there is kind of ripped up, but if I remember right I got it in the winter of 2005. Should be good for quite a while yet.”
He was close enough that I could feel his breath on my shoulder and feel his gaze on the cleavage barely visible beneath my Oxford shirt.
Deciding I had provided enough titillation, I slammed the hood shut and asked, “How much?”
“Well” . . . his eyes shifted, looking anywhere but at me, “she’s a classic you know. I don’t think I could let her go for less than . . . oh say $900?”
“This car hasn’t moved in months,” I said, pointing to the grass grown high around all four tires. “How about $700?”
He leaned away to spit a stream of tobacco juice at the scrawny cat lurking nearby. “$850?” he countered.
“How about $800 and you throw in those jumper cables and that case of oil over there?”
He scratched his head and said, “You got a deal.”
We shook hands, his was grimy and slick, mine dry and reluctant and I nobly resisted the urge to wipe mine on my jeans afterward.
The car started, I think to our joint amazement, and with only a slight miss on one cylinder. As an unexpected bonus, the ride home was smooth; apparently the shocks and suspension were in better shape than the rest of the car.
I parked in the drive, anxious to examine (and do a little heavy-duty cleaning of) the rough diamond I had bought.
The car had an odor of used motor oil . . . and old french fries. In the glove box (which I am reasonably sure had never held a glove), I found: three packets of ketchup from McDonalds, numerous salt and pepper packets now solid with moisture or torn open and gritty, a dirty pine tree air freshener with a faint odor of disinfectant, an owner’s manual, the outside filthy and tattered, the unused pages inside pristine and slick, a tiny tin box containing red and blue tipped fuses already dead and corroded, a crumpled, many times refolded map of Tennessee with one completely worn through fold that cancelled out the cities of Nashville, Cookville, and McKenzie, a bottle of Visine with just a few drops in the bottom with the painted on label nearly scratched off giving the bottle the more appropriate name of “isine,” a cassette tape with no case titled “The Deed is Done” by Molly Hatchet, only the broken case of the tape “A.K.A. Wham Bam Sam” bearing a leering photo of Hank Williams Jr., and last and most certainly least . . .two small foil packets (guaranteed to be heat damaged and pinholed), with the evocative brand name “Ramses.”
I shuddered and went back into the house for the bleach.
The End
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LaVonda Krout is a nurse, writer and gardener producing stories, healthy herbs and not-so-healthy hydrangeas in the hills of southern Indiana. She has previously been published in “Midwest Outdoors”, “Main Channel Voices”, “Centaur” and numerous publications and anthologies.
The Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette will pass the 2,700 hits mark for September today. It’s a beautiful thing.
Different Ways To Promote Your Blog
September 30, 2011 — pittsburghflashfictiongazetteCover of The Women's Room
The Old Soldier has three flyers up in Sonny’s Tavern asking for short story submissions for the Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette. One flyer is in the men’s room next to the urinal. One is in the women’s room (Debbie the bartender put that one in there so I don’t know where it’s at) and one in the barroom next to the dart machine.
I also carry business cards for the PFF Gazette in my wallet. The Old Soldier takes this blogging business seriously.
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Hello, everyone! It’s a chilly, overcast day in Pittsburgh. I heard on the radio that the University of Pittsburgh football team defeated the #16 ranked college football team in the nation last night.
The Old Soldier is stretched out on the sofa, jotting in his notebook, enjoying a few cans of Old Milwaukee Beer.
I’ll probably end up at Sonny’s Tavern later this evening. Sonny’s is only three blocks away and since one of the owners allowed (Paul actually suggested it) me to put up the flyers, maybe I should spend more time in the place, get to know the clientele, make myself known and promote the PFF Gazette in person.
Keep reading and keep writing that flash fiction.
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