by Jim Harrison
Originally published in Midnight Mind Number Three.
I must say I have no real interest in cars other than sentimental and that I tend to name them after a while like dogs. My first car was a ’29 Ford Model A which lasted only briefly due to a wreck where our football star was thrown through the roof. The next, a ’47 Plymouth, lasted until the night before I hitchhiked to San Francisco, when a friend and I destroyed it with hammers on the way home from work after stopping at a bar. There were a few girl stains including a cheerleader who vomited on the dashboard which always returned to me when the radiator heated up. I’m sure you’ll understand.
