This is a fun little future story looking back at today.
I came upon an old relic a few weeks ago, or really a ravishing antique. The moment I saw it, I knew it had to be mine. The problem was, I didn’t have enough money in the bank even to pay my rent. But it didn’t matter, the ravishing antique had to be mine.
When I saw it, I was doing a pizza delivery far out of town, hovering as close to the ancient road as I could, like I imagined they did a hundred years ago, not like most people these days who cruise along as high in the sky as possible. It was sitting far off the road, almost hidden, as though a young couple had left it on a lazy Sunday afternoon to hike in the nearby woods and had never come back.
“Stop,” I commanded my delivery van, then threw my door open and ran over to what I’d seen. After staring for a few seconds, I gingerly touched it and, since nothing bad happened, like no sirens blared, I caressed its bold curves, wiping off years of debris and grime as I did. Underneath the crud, it was pure white with two red racing stripes going down it from front to back. A few caresses was all I dared because, even though the owners must have been somewhere between skeletons and dust by then, I was sure they’d come running out of the woods at any minute and either kick my ass or have me arrested for molesting their precious beauty.
I couldn’t help myself after that. I had to go down that road, whether I had a delivery out that way or not, to see if it was still there. And it was, every time. I started spending more and more time with it, cleaning, polishing, pumping up tires that were in okay shape for their age – and getting closer and closer to being fired from my job with each passing day. But it didn’t matter. It had to be mine, even if just for a little while. I devised a plan.
I’d been interested in ancient cars for my whole life and had practiced driving them on simulators and stuff like that. So, all I really needed was some gasoline and a power pack to start the car. The gas I stole from a factory I delivered pizzas to that used it to clean their tools. The power pack was even easier. I’d just have to pry a battery out of my delivery van. I was about to get fired anyway; so, what the hell.
When I had everything ready and had summoned enough courage, I drove my delivery van slowly down the road, expecting the car to finally be gone, given my normal lack of good luck. But it was still there. I started shaking slightly and sweating, the nervous kind of sweat, not the exertion kind. “Stop,” I told my van. Shaking even more, I broke one of my beauty’s vent windows and reached in and opened the door slowly, solemnly. I searched around for keys, but couldn’t find any. So, I’d have to do it the hard way.
I went and poured in my purloined gasoline and then popped the hood to attach the battery pack I’d lifted. The sight now before me took my breath away, almost like the first time I saw the Grand Canyon. A pristine four-barrel carburetor sat as though on a throne, protected on either side by aluminum valve covers, perfectly machined even though they didn’t need to be, and adorned further down by sparkling chrome headers. I almost cried, but controlled myself as I jury-rigged in the battery pack and shut the hood.
My moment of truth had arrived. I sat down in the driver’s seat, shut the door, and rolled down the window. I reaching under the dash and hot-wired the car. Even after all its years of sitting, the engine sputtered to life with the thud-thud of a perfectly tuned high performance engine. I couldn’t help it anymore, I cried. I sat for half a minute and composed myself, lovingly petting the leather steering wheel.
Pushing the accelerator, the car jerked forward. Oops, a little too hard; but I smiled, almost laughed. Pressing a little gentler, I maneuvered the car into the center of the ancient road.
Okay, this is it!
My heart raced. More sweat poured. I smashed down the accelerator. Engine roared. Wheels screamed. Tires scorched. Slammed into the seat, I could barely hold onto the steering wheel. But I did, feeling my beauty slicing off to the left, correcting with the wheel, and carving to the right, laying down a fishtail I’m sure as sweet as any I’d ever seen in old books. Going straight now. 55 miles per hour, the speedometer read. 65. 80. 95. And my beauty still had more to show me. 105. 115. I’d driven hover vehicles my entire life; but this was the first time I truly felt like I was flying. 120. Yeehaw!
Shit, where the hell did they come from? I’d been going less than a minute and there were already flashing lights behind me.
“You are hereby commanded to stop,” a voice bellowed from the police vehicle, loud enough to be heard above the roar of my engine.
Fuck it! 125. 130.
“We will forcefully stop you in ten seconds.”
Okay, it was time to make sure the brakes worked, anyway. Sadly, they did.
The police vehicle landed and an officer hurried over to me. I got out of my car and was forcefully turned around toward it. “You are hereby under arrest for the illegal burning of petroleum products,” the officer said, snapping handcuffs on me. “You’ll be lucky if you get off with three years of hard labor.”
I was pushed into the police vehicle and it took off.
After a couple of minutes, the officer glanced back at me, a glint of nostalgic envy in his eyes. “So, was it worth it?” he asked.
The smell of burning rubber still lingered in my nose. “Every! Single! Fucking! Second!”
Story copyright © 2022 by David W. Palmer
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