Ole GalA Story by RebelRegan
Monday morning ride. Writer’s Prompt for today: Take the first line of your favorite song and write a story using it as the first line
backed my car into a cop car the other day, well, he just drove off…
sometimes life’s OK (of course, “sometimes” was the burning obvious word
here). I just sat there saying to myself, “Seriously, did I just do
that?.. did he just do that?.” Score one for me!
I push my stiff clutch in and restart my busted old bug, as it died the moment the small thump happened. I couldn’t help but grin the moment the ole girl started up; I do every time. Eagerly I await the rough shudder her bones give off as I turn the key over. She sighs and gives off a small high purring whistle as her engine begins to lubricate her innards. I feel she’s awake enough now to be my chariot.
any true gal from Seattle would be, my hand doesn’t end with my
fingers, it has a growth the size of a 16 oz cup of java. Today, I am
definitely not sans this growth. I take delight as the old girl begins
to put off the caffeinated smell of the Gods. I let the hysteric moment
pass, and embrace the warmth emanating from the container. My hands warm
to the cup as I listen to the sounds of the Pacific North”wet” rain
fall, washing over the hood of my old companion.
The voice of my father echos, “Clutch in!… Check. Gently put into gear!…Check. Release the clutch while simultaneously giving gas!… “ Lurch… ugh … Grind.. He never once told me, “Dear girl, this needs all your faculties in check. Hands, feet, head, hands and eyes aware before moving forward.” Here I am thinking that it was a b r e e z e from the gentle delivery of instructions relayed by him. I recap his words, doing the actions as I think them; with freshly brewed hot lava still attached to my hand.. (everyone knows an old bug isn’t equipped with cup holders, that’s for them conglomerate new ones.) I give it some gas as I let the clutch out…
Her rusty bones protest, like knees on a grandmother as she rises from her chair. The car yanks forward as if to say, “Hey.. dumbass, here’s your wake up call!” In that moment everything moved at snail’s speed, dramatically slowing down as if I was trapped in a dramatic movie scene. My eyes caught my fingers gripping, oh grasping so hard, around the pliable paper cup. My body wanted to salvage my drug of choice, every effort put into not spilling it. The car, and coffee for that matter, had other intentions in mind.
The lid bounces off and all I can hear is “OH S**T… not again!”.. I shake my head in disbelief as I stare at the interior of my chipper old gal. Although I am sure she likes when I give her the attention her cute a*s deserves by bathing her, she most likely doesn’t like it when I bath the inside of her with sugar and cream. This morning is just not my morning… I groan to myself. Stuck on the side of the road with a newly coffee color painted bug, mortified with embarrassment, I recollect myself into the restart process of safe gear maneuvering; little too late again.
Onward bound, sans coffee.
© 2011 RebelRegan
Bigfoot Migratory Path, WA
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