Sunday, June 27, 2004

I have somehow given over charge of the upkeep of our family vehicle to childhood friend Jack. I think it is not going well. I'm wondering if perhaps Jack is drifting away.

We live in cubicles; everyone does. Very tight quarters and all indoors. We are here, and our auto is around the block. It's like we live in storage lockers.

Something is wrong with the vehicle. I look under the hood. Yes, yes, there is something wrong. It seems to be missing.

The engine.

I am to understand we await a motor transplant. I am under the auto now, looking around. It is a Toyota engine we are expecting. Someone calls out, "What make of car is that?"

I'm slow to answer because I don't know. I pretend to be preccupied looking at a lot of oily metal, embarrassed. Then I spot the steering wheel, with the Indian head on it; turn it so the chrome label shows.

"Powereze," I call out, authoritatively.

"Oh," he says. "A Pontiac."

Jack has made arrangements for a wood campfire under a missing wheel. This is to be our family heat, I figure. But won't it be too hot then under here when they come with the engine?

When I am back on the street, I see something I hadn't noticed before. The right side and roof are destroyed, opened up like an explosion ripped it from inside. This, I understand, is how they removed the engine so quickly. They must've used a monumental wrenching gadget.

I'm thinking, maybe I should ask Jack not to help us so much...


tremonius said...

There are very few dogs who sing, and still fewer Pontiacs which accept Toyota engines.
A word to the wise is surfeit.

tremonius said...

There are very few angels who bark