The White Olds.

Out in the driveway, she sits deader than a month of Mondays. Fuel pump blown years ago. Gaskets worn to shit from years of overextending the small V6. Rust around the wheel wells. Hazy mags begging for some polish. She was somebody’s baby once. She was new once. Someone spent a bunch of years loading bricks into the back of a truck in order to buy her. Or maybe someone busted their ass pulling twelves, ten-in-four-out on a highway crew just to throw enough down on her. Maybe someone bought her with cash, ‘cause that’s the way it had to be.

That cigarette burn on the passenger’s seat is the only taint on the interior, save the permanent and endearing stench of DuMaurier. She was a beaut back in the day, but now she’s all but spent; a white elephant taking up space in a gravel driveway. Even though she hasn’t moved in years; even though she’s an inch away from the wreckers, someone always sweeps her windows clean after a snowfall. And I never see who it is.