LJ Idol: Week 2--Three Little Words
"That's....not good."
Three little words that you never want to hear from your mechanic. Especially if your mechanic also happens to be your grandfather and you know he's not lying to you just to get a fat wad of cash.
I hover around the car, squinting against the sun, trying to see what he sees. I grew up around body and fender shops. You'd think some of this would have sunk in by osmosis. I know how to pinstripe. I change my own oil and my own brake pads. I learned early on that when the cops pull you over for driving a less-than-legal car over the border into Tiajuana, you start crying and pleading that you have to go to the bathroom RIGHT NOW. And a good performance usually means you get ice cream for breakfast.
I look under the hood of the car, and I just don't see what he sees. I don't know what he sees. It's just dying a slow, ignominious death.
"And your father in law said he had this worked on before he gave it to you?"
"Yes, sir."
"It didn't get worked on, but whoever he paid sure worked him over. You're lucky that you can drive more than ten miles before this thing overheats."
It takes twelve miles to get to the grocery store. I savor every minute of it: the twisting mountain roads, the static as the one local radio station's signal plays hide and seek in the trees, the cool air pouring down my throat from the open window. It tastes like freedom. And for that 12 miles, and those few precious minutes, it is.
"You'd think if he was going to give you a car, he'd've given you something that you could get around in a bit more. Give you a little freedom."
Freedom? The word knots around my throat, a bitter joke. What else would I do, other than the endless junket between the store and back, hoping not to be stranded at the side of the road with two crying babies and a trunk of slowly rotting produce? What if I let myself fly instead of drive?
"I don't think there's anything we can do to save it."
I've seen him make miracles out of less. It takes skill to keep a car running until it hits the 400,000 mile mark. This can't possibly be that bad. I squint against the sun again, trying to read the mystery in wires and metal.
"I can try, kitten. But do you really want to save it?"
It comes as a whisper, not the scream it feels like it should be. "No. But....maybe the kids and me could come stay with you for a few days? Would you mind?"
I feel like a little girl again as he takes my hand, slamming the hood shut with the other. "You know, some things just aren't worth saving."
Three little words that you never want to hear from your mechanic. Especially if your mechanic also happens to be your grandfather and you know he's not lying to you just to get a fat wad of cash.
I hover around the car, squinting against the sun, trying to see what he sees. I grew up around body and fender shops. You'd think some of this would have sunk in by osmosis. I know how to pinstripe. I change my own oil and my own brake pads. I learned early on that when the cops pull you over for driving a less-than-legal car over the border into Tiajuana, you start crying and pleading that you have to go to the bathroom RIGHT NOW. And a good performance usually means you get ice cream for breakfast.
I look under the hood of the car, and I just don't see what he sees. I don't know what he sees. It's just dying a slow, ignominious death.
"And your father in law said he had this worked on before he gave it to you?"
"Yes, sir."
"It didn't get worked on, but whoever he paid sure worked him over. You're lucky that you can drive more than ten miles before this thing overheats."
It takes twelve miles to get to the grocery store. I savor every minute of it: the twisting mountain roads, the static as the one local radio station's signal plays hide and seek in the trees, the cool air pouring down my throat from the open window. It tastes like freedom. And for that 12 miles, and those few precious minutes, it is.
"You'd think if he was going to give you a car, he'd've given you something that you could get around in a bit more. Give you a little freedom."
Freedom? The word knots around my throat, a bitter joke. What else would I do, other than the endless junket between the store and back, hoping not to be stranded at the side of the road with two crying babies and a trunk of slowly rotting produce? What if I let myself fly instead of drive?
"I don't think there's anything we can do to save it."
I've seen him make miracles out of less. It takes skill to keep a car running until it hits the 400,000 mile mark. This can't possibly be that bad. I squint against the sun again, trying to read the mystery in wires and metal.
"I can try, kitten. But do you really want to save it?"
It comes as a whisper, not the scream it feels like it should be. "No. But....maybe the kids and me could come stay with you for a few days? Would you mind?"
I feel like a little girl again as he takes my hand, slamming the hood shut with the other. "You know, some things just aren't worth saving."