One Last Drive

In which I give life to cars about to change hands

[onelastdrive]

It's time to fly by yourself, Steve.

Steve knew it was going to happen soon. Helga, his friend, his partner, his Winnebago, had gone on Craigslist a week ago. It was tough, but their owners were done with this part of their lives. Sometimes, toward the end, they'd talk about driving. He'd ask her what it was like to just drive all day long. She'd tell him he knew, that he was there too. He'd laugh and say "You know what I mean."

Then one day, a young couple came and bought Helga. Just like that. They were talking about taking her up the coast. Steve was happy for her, he knew she liked the way her springs shifted and swayed on Highway 101. It made her feel sexy, like she was in a car commercial.

But now....he was alone. The tow hooks were gone from his bumper and a fresh coat of Meguair's made his gold paint gleam. Steve knew his next owner was going to take him on the interstate. Alone. No Helga in front of him, wind blasting into his grill, doing it all on his own power. He was terrified. He was excited. He was ready.

[onelastdrive]

Freddie Is a Bad-Ass

Freddie ached everywhere, but his owner didn't let up, slewing his rear wheels again through the gravel parking lot behind the Circle K. "WOOOOOO!" his owner screamed. In a nearby backyard, a lady looked up from putting her laundry on the line, shook her head, and continued her work.

Freddie thought back to his glory days — when his then-owner would take him out cruising. The streetlights would make his scarlet skin shine and there was a steady rotation of Stevie Wonder, Led Zeppelin, and Doobie Brothers 8-tracks through his stereo. Then Joe got busted, Freddie got sold to pay for the lawyer, then sold again...and again. His scarlet paint faded and was covered. There were fender-benders. There was Bondo. There was primer. A couple of winters in the Northeast gave him some undercarriage rot. A cheap aftermarket stereo, wires dangling under the dash, replaced the 8-track. One owner was going to replace his steelies with swanky alloys, but ran out of money.

And now here he was, with rust holes in his frame, dented, aching, and sliding sideways through the gravel.

But somewhere, deep inside, it didn't matter. The dents, the crappy paint, the aftermarket crap, his litany of broken, squeaky, leaking, aging parts.

Because Freddie was a badass. And only a badass could handle him.

[onelastdrive]

Clive is doing well after the surgery.

Clive loved Autumn. When his owner lifted the garage door on the Connecticut bungalow where he lived, the view was nothing short of idyllic - lawns turned to diamonds with a sparkling cover of frost, trees the colors of fire, the sun turning their tops to gold, and air so crisp you could bite it like an apple.

His owner got in and cranked the engine. Air and fuel pumped through, and Clive's exhaust barked a happy note, then settled into an easy purr. Every day after the surgery, he felt good, he felt powerful. "Clive...." his owner started..."It's time."

Clive flicked his headlights in assent. He knew this day was coming. His owner was on to other projects. He'd heard something about a '63 E-type getting a Skyline v6. It didn't matter. All that mattered now were the driving gloves on his steering wheel, the air roaring through his cockpit, and gulping down Connecticut backroads on a fine morning.

Bonus for Tumblr: The late-60s Lotus Elan is often credited with being the inspiration for the first generation of the Miata. From the DOHC front engine-rwd setup to the flip-up headlights, there are lots of styling cues that made it into the Miata. And that's a very good thing.

[onelastdrive]

Nigel has seen better days...

Dawn broke in Miami, turning the almost-bearable damp grey early dawn into the sauna-like heat that was fall in Miami (as opposed to the sauna-like heat of summer in Miami or the sauna-like heat of winter in Miami). Nigel sat quietly in the lot. The sun felt good on his skin, but he knew it was wrecking his leather.

Jake came out with a rag. Nigel liked Jake. He was a kid, but he was nice. "Got the Craigslist ad up, we're gonna sell you soon!" Jake said.

Nigel chuckled wearily. "How much?"

"Sixty six"

"Thousand?" Nigel sighed. "Kid, I like you, but at that price, I'm going to be on this lot until the ice caps melt and we all drift off to sea." "But you're a Rolls!" "I was a Rolls." Jake wiped a little dust off of Nigel's huge, stretched fender. "Now I'm a freak." "Hey, you're STYLISH."

"For someone, maybe. Maybe when coke money poured through this town and Don Johnson was wearing pastel shirts and chasing baddies in Scarab boats. Not now."

Jake chuckled nervously. Nigel continued.

"Look, kid. I don't care, I like it here. You keep me clean, I get my oil changed, I don't have to work hard. But I'm not going to go home unless you slice that number in half. There just isn't enough crazy in Miami for me to be appealing any more. Not for 60k."

[onelastdrive]

Gunther the BMW

Gunther felt consciousness trying to fade in. There was light for the first time in a while. Then there were hands on him. Everything felt far-away, dreamlike. He was being pushed. There was hesitation, then a pop. Distantly, he realized that that should have hurt, but didn't. He was becoming more aware of things. How long had he been out? He was in full sunshine now, and water streamed over his burgundy skin. He smiled a quiet smile and let himself drift off again.

Maybe someone would wake him from his slumber.

Soon.

Gunther let the darkness creep over him again as he hummed "Bust a Move" to himself.

[onelastdrive]

Tim the Old Truck

Joe creaked down the steps into the garage and opened Tim's driver's side door. He set his Thermos of coffee on the passenger seat and slid into the driver's side. Now Tim creaked, too - his leaf springs hadn't been fresh since the first Bush presidency. "Morning," Joe said.

Joe buzzed up the garage door. It was a beautiful fall day and the sun was shining. He poured a cup of coffee from the Thermos. It momentarily steamed Tim's windshield. Joe cranked Tim's little four-cylinder to life and they set off, slowly. Tim's left blinker flicked on and off merrily as they cruised down the suburban boulevards of Sacramento. Joe winced as he put the clutch in for a four-way stop, then had to stifle a little yelp of pain as he let it out. "Joe..." Tim's voice was stern. "Dammit, Tim. I'm not getting a damn Buick." "I know, Joe. But I need to go to someone with younger knees, someone who isn't hurting himself on my clutch." "It's' time, isn't it." "It is."

"Today's the last day?"

"Today's the last day."

It would be a beautiful day — picking up a bushel of apples, stopping at the VFW to tell stories, and enjoying the plentiful sunshine of Fall in California. And it was wonderful. It was almost over, and they were about to turn back onto Maple Street, when Tim said "Turn right here. I've got a surprise for you." Joe obliged. He hadn't been down this way in a while — the Olsens had painted their house. It looked nice. They pulled up to a stop sign. "Hang on," Tim said. A pale blue LUV truck pulled up next to them. The driver — a tattooed woman with an infectious smile — smiled at Joe. Confused, he smiled back. "Consider it a going away present," Tim said. And at that moment, a border collie, which had been curled comfortably in the bed of the blue truck, leapt over into the yellow Ford. The blue truck drove away. "This is Missy," Tim said. "She'll take good care of you."

[EDIT: This is fiction. Please don't drive with a dog in the bed of your pickup truck. It's really unsafe. I was actually concerned about the fictional border collie's safety, but decided that she'd ridden in the cab most of the way and only gotten into the back at the last minute.