Tag: cars

Not once in my childhood did I appreciate that our family car was an orange shortie with yellow accents all throughout. If I’d had any sense I would’ve begged our pop to store it for me when the engine started to give out instead of selling it off for pennies.

mayanhandballcourt:

Photographer Christopher Hall

Not sure what was going on in the 70s to make everyone latch onto oranges and browns, but our family car for a chunk of the 90s was this exact model and color of shorty. Our pop tricked it out with wood paneling and brown carpet, a bench seat in the back, and big windows on both sides.

It’s always fun to come across these in scrapyards and investigate how someone else decided to mod theirs. It’s super rare to see a working one in the wild!

Transmission

I need to get going. My car needs to get dropped off at the transmission shop. I need to do it. I gotta go. But let me—just let me talk about this girl I saw yesterday. It was sort of warm. I was south on El Camino looking for a place that sells fresh plums. And rubber necking all over. Headed south, right. I’m driving and, brother, shoot an arrow through my heart. Fuckin’ kill me ‘cause I wanna die with this as the last thing in my head. I see this girl, right. I mean, goddamn. Just kill me. I see this girl riding her bike—old Schwinn, purple or blue—she’s riding but sort of stopped. She’s riding in some sort of figure eight. She’s looking southways through a honkin’ big pair of sunglasses. Forehead to nose sort of thing. She’s not close but I can see she’s got one of those nice noses and mouths. She’s got her lips colored some sort of red. Not real red, but like an orange-red. Goddamn, they were dick- sucking lips if I’ve ever seen them. Thirty feet away I’d say. Her hair was flat and limp-like, like at the beach. Whole thing was like being at the boardwalk when I was a teenager. This girl’s tanned as milk and coffee. Dark hair’s streaming along behind her back and she’s got on not much of anything. Black straps-type thing up top and shorts as short as the tops of her legs. Kind of girl you might say’s got bird legs and she’d get angry over it. So she’s in her figure eight and pedaling in this dreamlike way and looking so damn pretty that I got all twisted up and like nothing would be good again unless I had her. I turn around at the closest U-turn and she was gone. For one last look, you know. I get to my motel and call a girl over for a couple of hours. Still thinking of bird legs and lips. The girl I called shows up and she’s nice, but I stand up and she puts her purse down. I give her the money and she asks right here and I’m nodding, yes, here. She smiles in that fake sort of way so I close my eyes and then I’m back on the street with bird legs and it’s just us. She’s got her big sunglasses on. The sun’s shining off her shoulders and her thighs. It’s all so bright that I block out the shine and I’m just feeling the warmth of her mouth. I’m letting her come at me but then my hands are in her hair. It’s like the man is gone or something. I just want to feel all the way inside so I’m going at bird legs harder and her eyes tear up through her glasses somehow until she pushes me away to catch a breath. She’s got those shorts that she takes off but I just tell her to stay where she is. And those dick-sucking lips, brother, they shine brighter than anything when I put myself back inside and hold her flat beach hair until there’s nothing left of me but sounds I can’t conjure up outside being there with her. I think of her riding home on her bike and tell the nice girl I called that she can go. I give her more before she leaves. Anyway, I really gotta take my car to the transmission shop. I’ll see ya ‘round.

Transmission

I need to get going. My car needs to get dropped off at the transmission shop. I need to do it. I gotta go. But let me—just let me talk about this girl I saw yesterday. It was sort of warm. I was south on El Camino looking for a place that sells fresh plums. And rubber necking all over. Headed south, right. I’m driving and, brother, shoot an arrow through my heart. Fuckin’ kill me ‘cause I wanna die with this as the last thing in my head. I see this girl, right. I mean, goddamn. Just kill me. I see this girl riding her bike—old Schwinn, purple or blue—she’s riding but sort of stopped. She’s riding in some sort of figure eight. She’s looking southways through a honkin’ big pair of sunglasses. Forehead to nose sort of thing. She’s not close but I can see she’s got one of those nice noses and mouths. She’s got her lips colored some sort of red. Not real red, but like an orange-red. Goddamn, they were dick- sucking lips if I’ve ever seen them. Thirty feet away I’d say. Her hair was flat and limp-like, like at the beach. Whole thing was like being at the boardwalk when I was a teenager. This girl’s tanned as milk and coffee. Dark hair’s streaming along behind her back and she’s got on not much of anything. Black straps-type thing up top and shorts as short as the tops of her legs. Kind of girl you might say’s got bird legs and she’d get angry over it. So she’s in her figure eight and pedaling in this dreamlike way and looking so damn pretty that I got all twisted up and like nothing would be good again unless I had her. I turn around at the closest U-turn and she was gone. For one last look, you know. I get to my motel and call a girl over for a couple of hours. Still thinking of bird legs and lips. The girl I called shows up and she’s nice, but I stand up and she puts her purse down. I give her the money and she asks right here and I’m nodding, yes, here. She smiles in that fake sort of way so I close my eyes and then I’m back on the street with bird legs and it’s just us. She’s got her big sunglasses on. The sun’s shining off her shoulders and her thighs. It’s all so bright that I block out the shine and I’m just feeling the warmth of her mouth. I’m letting her come at me but then my hands are in her hair. It’s like the man is gone or something. I just want to feel all the way inside so I’m going at bird legs harder and her eyes tear up through her glasses somehow until she pushes me away to catch a breath. She’s got those shorts that she takes off but I just tell her to stay where she is. And those dick-sucking lips, brother, they shine brighter than anything when I put myself back inside and hold her flat beach hair until there’s nothing left of me but sounds I can’t conjure up outside being there with her. I think of her riding home on her bike and tell the nice girl I called that she can go. I give her more before she leaves. Anyway, I really gotta take my car to the transmission shop. I’ll see ya ‘round.

I drove my new car home today. It’s got real voom on the highway, and far greater power than the other car. I foresee good performance and service, which comforts me in these trying times. That previous car is still in my possession and while the cash from selling it would be a much needed boon, the process is daunting. I have no desire to haggle with buyers. None of them will understand how to properly care for it, or what the car means. I will simply fix the rear diff seal, replace the cracked windshield, and keep it around until such time as I have the energy to deal with selling it. Or, enjoy the luxury of a weekend car.

What it took to get that new car here is something worth writing about. I took notes while I read short stories on a Greyhound bus to Sacramento. Jotted numbers, underlined metaphoric phrases. I regretted not taking photographs of my trip, but those can be acquired later, after the story has materialized. It makes sense that I lack patience for candid photography and demand only the choice images that aid the narrative.

What “makes sense?” That’s a puzzler. Sometimes, you can’t make sense of who a man is or what he does.

I’m a man who wants a drink. I want to get up and get it myself. This is how I get what I want. Instead, you stand. You will be right back. I sit and watch the crowds at the kayak shack while you walk away. I sit and watch you walk away. I’m going to carry you into the water and you do not know it.

I’ve been cheating. I told my writing professor/motivator that I would focus on writing entirely new stories this semester. New drive, new motivation. I told her, “If anyone and anyplace can do it, it’s here and it’s you.” When after four weeks I had only journal entries and broken sentences on paper, I stopped trying. I pulled the old PC laptop out of the garage and opened the archive I’d saved of the old blog. Waste not, want not. I just needed the stories that were five or more pages. I picked at the body and came away with the most succulent morsels. Those I had not already taken and used, of course. At least three semesters of stories ready to go. I can not bear to admit how much I need her, the class, and the one night a week in which I can simply sit, listen, comment, and read to a group of interested people. I can only hope her intuition tells her so.

My closing thoughts this evening are of you. You feign timidity out of fear of sounding stupid. Your looks matter more than you will admit. Your looks are never good enough. You like the feel of you when you lay beneath a shield of blankets. You would throw your phone into the sea to get away. Your intelligence is a burden on your psyche. You are less oblivious than you were, but remain blissfully unaware in many regards. Aware enough to see through the bullshit, though. Hatred comes easily to you, and this above all things separates us. I am average, neutral, indifferent, apathetic. My passion comes in self-serving spurts. I dwell well within the comfort of the curve. You are and will likely always be on the fringe. In your mind, in your heart, in your unbalanced soul.

I drove my new car home today. It’s got real voom on the highway, and far greater power than the other car. I foresee good performance and service, which comforts me in these trying times. That previous car is still in my possession and while the cash from selling it would be a much needed boon, the process is daunting. I have no desire to haggle with buyers. None of them will understand how to properly care for it, or what the car means. I will simply fix the rear diff seal, replace the cracked windshield, and keep it around until such time as I have the energy to deal with selling it. Or, enjoy the luxury of a weekend car.

What it took to get that new car here is something worth writing about. I took notes while I read short stories on a Greyhound bus to Sacramento. Jotted numbers, underlined metaphoric phrases. I regretted not taking photographs of my trip, but those can be acquired later, after the story has materialized. It makes sense that I lack patience for candid photography and demand only the choice images that aid the narrative.

What “makes sense?” That’s a puzzler. Sometimes, you can’t make sense of who a man is or what he does.

I’m a man who wants a drink. I want to get up and get it myself. This is how I get what I want. Instead, you stand. You will be right back. I sit and watch the crowds at the kayak shack while you walk away. I sit and watch you walk away. I’m going to carry you into the water and you do not know it.

I’ve been cheating. I told my writing professor/motivator that I would focus on writing entirely new stories this semester. New drive, new motivation. I told her, “If anyone and anyplace can do it, it’s here and it’s you.” When after four weeks I had only journal entries and broken sentences on paper, I stopped trying. I pulled the old PC laptop out of the garage and opened the archive I’d saved of the old blog. Waste not, want not. I just needed the stories that were five or more pages. I picked at the body and came away with the most succulent morsels. Those I had not already taken and used, of course. At least three semesters of stories ready to go. I can not bear to admit how much I need her, the class, and the one night a week in which I can simply sit, listen, comment, and read to a group of interested people. I can only hope her intuition tells her so.

My closing thoughts this evening are of you. You feign timidity out of fear of sounding stupid. Your looks matter more than you will admit. Your looks are never good enough. You like the feel of you when you lay beneath a shield of blankets. You would throw your phone into the sea to get away. Your intelligence is a burden on your psyche. You are less oblivious than you were, but remain blissfully unaware in many regards. Aware enough to see through the bullshit, though. Hatred comes easily to you, and this above all things separates us. I am average, neutral, indifferent, apathetic. My passion comes in self-serving spurts. I dwell well within the comfort of the curve. You are and will likely always be on the fringe. In your mind, in your heart, in your unbalanced soul.