The fourth one I owned belonged to my mom. She took us to skool in it. It was the “one” of female liberation. It signified that we had gotten away, and while we had not gotten away very far...it was away nonetheless. A pathetic triumph of the woman. Sometimes you count your blessings even if it's in the form of a jalopy.
It sucked but we were glad to have something. Cuz something is better than nothing. Better than taking the bus. The belts buzzed horribly and the window wouldn’t roll down, but I had love for it. I drove one summer through the deep south in that thing listening to Nelly when the song was still new. He told me it was getting hot and shit I knew it had been hot: my damn windows couldn't roll down.
But, The radio still worked and I could bob my safely. Until my head bobbed down for good needing sleep and I really did crash into a telephone pole. It didn’t feel as good as I thought it would. I would be lying if I said I hadn't fantasized about it before. Not in a Crash, the book kind of way. More like in a way where we are just attracted to a falling sensation or an end of sorts. I ached. And was broken. And scarred. And bleeding way more than I imagined a face would. Both of our faces. Both of our faces were not so pretty but what came out was. And the man slipping his fingers in my dress was not pretty either. He smelled and people watched from central ave. They drove by slowly and mouthed the words "aw, shiiiittt". When someone finally called for the ambulence, the man had already walked away sticking his slimy face and fingers in me. I thought time was irrelevant. My watch was broken and so was my metal machine.
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