67 Cherry Red (English)

An adaptation of the song 67, cherry red by Aaron West and the roaring twenties, from the perspective of Robert.

The coffee flow through my body as I close my eyes and feel the bitter yet sweet taste. Sorry, but I like sugar in my coffee. In front of me on the small kitchen table todays edition of The Post and The Courier. I open it and eye through it without much thought. Nothing in it interests me. People still seem to be upset with Obama winning the election, despite it having been a month since it now. As if he had not been president for four years already, and nothing really changing because of it. No reason to listen to those people. As usual when I get to the ads I flip the page, but something catches my eye and I turn the page back, reading the ad again. 

“Are there grease stains on your skin?

Do the songs of young love still hum like an engine in your head?

I’ve got what you need.

67 cherry red.”

The feelings come crashing over me like a wave. I am no longer seventy years old, sitting in my small apartment in Charleston. Suddenly I am twenty-three years old, and I have just moved to California with Cecilia. With my Cecilia. I’ve got a cherry red Ford Mustang, brand-spanking new, the same one as this Aaron west-fellow is selling. I do not have as much money as I would have liked now, the most went to paying for the funeral. But there is a need. I need that car. Then I can die happy. Worst case scenario, I can ask the kids for some money. They probably are happy to. I would never, of course, but I could swallow my pride. I pick up my phone, a phone I barely know how to use, and dial the number on the ad. A few seconds, then someone answers on the other side. 

“Hi, Aaron speaking.” The voice that answers is bright, but tired. Like it has been through hell and just about managed to get back. 

“Aaron West, selling the mustang,” I ask. 

“Yeah, that’s me. Are you interested in it?” 

“You could say that. Is it still available?” 

“You’re the first caller.”

“Perfect. Do you mind if I come take a look?” Out of pure habit I smile, despite the fact he can not see me. I guess it makes me feel better that way. 

“Sure thing. Do you know the 7/11 by Dorchester Road?” 

“North Charleston?” 

“Yep.”

“Great, I’ll see you there by five.”

“Sounds great.” 

“I’m Robert, by the way?” 

“Pleased to talk to you, Robert. See you later.” 

With that he hangs up. Sure, making it to North Charleston is a bit of a hassle, but it’s sure to work out. I have seven hours before then, after all. I lean back in my chair and look out at the december sun as it rises outside my window. There is a calm, a calm I have not felt since the day she died. 

4.58 PM the clock shows as the bus arrive at 4106 Dorchester Road. I almost jump out of it, though I guess jumping is a strong word for a man of my age. There is a man in his thirties sitting on the hood of a red mustang on the parking lot, with some kind of chocolate bar in his hand. The closer I get, the clearer the picture of this Aaron West becomes. His sneakers are worn, his jeans a bit too baggy compared to what I see the youth wearing these days and a jean-jacket hides a hoodie underneath. His back is turned to me, and I see that it reads Buffalo Bills on the back of it. I can’t help but schoff. Born and raised in Atlanta, I can’t help but root for the Falcons. Not that I mind Buffalo, but sports tribalism is what it is. He turns around, and if I thought that he sounded tired then that is nothing compared to how he looks. His eyes are sunken, with great blue rings underneath them. He sagged as he sat straight. At first I thought it was because he had nothing to lean against, but now it looks as if he just struggles to keep himself erect. Even his big, reddish beard looks tired somehow. 

“Robert,” he asks as I approach.

“That would be me,” I respond and we shake hands. A firm handshake, that, but once again it is like he had to struggle to keep it going. Aaron turns towards the car. 

“Well, here she is. Ford Mustang, 1967, cherry red. Yours for 2000 dollars.” Something in me jumps. 2000 dollars is nothing for a car like this, not when it is this well kept. 

“I know this is a bad thing for me to ask, but 2000 seems cheep.” 

Aaron laughs. “I know, but I need to pay back at an inn and then but a busticket back to New York.” He lowers his eyes when he said it, like he is ashamed of himself. Then he adds, “The car was my dads, before he…” Aaron trails off, but the end of the sentence was not necessary.

“I’m sorry.” 

Aaron lifts his eyes again and studies me. 

“You know what, you look a bit like him.” A smile splits his face. “He bought it when he turned twenty-four. He kept it in as great shape as he could after that.” 

“I had a one just like it when I was twenty-three. I lived in California with my wife. She...passed away this spring, and I wanted it as a memory of her.” Aaron lowers his eyes again, and it looks as if there is a tear in his eyes. He shakes his head, clears his throat and locks eyes with me again.

“You know what, 1500 bucks and she’s yours. I know what it is like to lose a wife,” The tear comes back, “and besides, you seem like a nice guy. I know you're going to love her and take care of her, just like dad did.” 

I don’t what to say in response, so I just put my hand forward. He takes it, and before I know it he hugs me. Hugging strangers is not something I usually go for, but it feels like we both needed it. 

Ten minutes later, and I have deposited the money, given them to him and put myself behind the wheel. Aaron takes the bus to somewhere I don’t know. I hope everything works out well for him. 

“Good luck.” I say to his back as I drive away. The sun is going down, but it feels good as it shines on my face. For the first time in a year, I don’t feel sad or worried. 

“Don’t this remind you of California?” I ask the car out loud. 

“It sure does.” Cecilia answers beside me, smiling. I answer the smile and turn the radio up a bit more. 

“It sure does.”

Reviews

[Delmar Cooper]

This reader has never heard the song, or heard of the singers, and is ignorant of the provenance of your writing. That being said:

The story is entertaining and a compelling read. The last lines are unpresaged and seen a cheap way to finish the story. But, I have no other context than your writing.