Contributor: Kenzie Cluster
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I arrived a few hours ago while it was raining. We came all the way from Las Vegas, and drove for two days straight to get back to Portland. The gaslight had come on six times: all remaining change was scraped from the ashtray and the sticky floorboards until there was no way to keep going. My driver punched my dashboard three times before exiting and slamming my door. I had watched him walk into the darkness, cursing loudly, without a second glance behind him to reassure me he would be back soon. Since the rain stopped, my engine is cold and I am lonely. I miss my driver.
I remember when we first met: it was a summer morning, and he came running toward me saying, “That’s her! I saw her in my dream, that Gunship Gray 1969 Ford Fairlane. She’s beautiful.”
He’d waited for my last driver to get out of the grocery store to offer him a large sum of cash to take me home right then and there. He quickly agreed, knowing that his angry lady would be happy I was gone. He would have given me up for any amount thanks to the angry lady.
My driver and I went everywhere together for a long time. He took me on trips just to show me off. He waxed me weekly and always polished away his fingerprints when the day was over. In time, he started letting people come and ride with him more often, but not as a treat to them, as a treat for him. We went to many trashed houses and ill kept neighborhoods.
He and his most frequent passenger decided to go on a long ride last weekend. He drove me very badly for the first few hours; he almost ran us right into a pole. Then we got to the bright city he frequently spoke of: there were lights in every direction, and people pointed at me and called out in admiration and jealousy. I felt like a golden woman, until he parked me in an alley and left for days.
Soon enough, a shifty couple came and tried to take me away, but my driver was smart: when the doors were unlocked and the key was in, my motor wouldn’t start. He always did this trick when we went fancy places. The man cursed but dare not hit me, and the woman cried silently as they snuck away. I was glad they left.
My driver and his passenger came back angry. He fumbled putting my engine back together and burnt his hand. We left the bright city in a rush, and I grew tired quickly. We didn’t stop for breaks this time. My engine sputtered to a halt twice on the way back, and my driver had filled me with the stored gas.
I’m here now with an empty fuel tank, and I don’t know when I will get a drink. I’m thirsty and tired, and as hard as I search, I can’t find my driver. The rain is falling lightly now, making me cold. Maybe this time my driver won’t come back, and I’ll be left here alone.
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Kenzie Cluster lives in Tooele, Utah with her husband and daughter, and is working on her Bachelor's degree at Full Sail University.
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I arrived a few hours ago while it was raining. We came all the way from Las Vegas, and drove for two days straight to get back to Portland. The gaslight had come on six times: all remaining change was scraped from the ashtray and the sticky floorboards until there was no way to keep going. My driver punched my dashboard three times before exiting and slamming my door. I had watched him walk into the darkness, cursing loudly, without a second glance behind him to reassure me he would be back soon. Since the rain stopped, my engine is cold and I am lonely. I miss my driver.
I remember when we first met: it was a summer morning, and he came running toward me saying, “That’s her! I saw her in my dream, that Gunship Gray 1969 Ford Fairlane. She’s beautiful.”
He’d waited for my last driver to get out of the grocery store to offer him a large sum of cash to take me home right then and there. He quickly agreed, knowing that his angry lady would be happy I was gone. He would have given me up for any amount thanks to the angry lady.
My driver and I went everywhere together for a long time. He took me on trips just to show me off. He waxed me weekly and always polished away his fingerprints when the day was over. In time, he started letting people come and ride with him more often, but not as a treat to them, as a treat for him. We went to many trashed houses and ill kept neighborhoods.
He and his most frequent passenger decided to go on a long ride last weekend. He drove me very badly for the first few hours; he almost ran us right into a pole. Then we got to the bright city he frequently spoke of: there were lights in every direction, and people pointed at me and called out in admiration and jealousy. I felt like a golden woman, until he parked me in an alley and left for days.
Soon enough, a shifty couple came and tried to take me away, but my driver was smart: when the doors were unlocked and the key was in, my motor wouldn’t start. He always did this trick when we went fancy places. The man cursed but dare not hit me, and the woman cried silently as they snuck away. I was glad they left.
My driver and his passenger came back angry. He fumbled putting my engine back together and burnt his hand. We left the bright city in a rush, and I grew tired quickly. We didn’t stop for breaks this time. My engine sputtered to a halt twice on the way back, and my driver had filled me with the stored gas.
I’m here now with an empty fuel tank, and I don’t know when I will get a drink. I’m thirsty and tired, and as hard as I search, I can’t find my driver. The rain is falling lightly now, making me cold. Maybe this time my driver won’t come back, and I’ll be left here alone.
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Kenzie Cluster lives in Tooele, Utah with her husband and daughter, and is working on her Bachelor's degree at Full Sail University.
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Author:
Kenzie Cluster
