Warm Summer Breeze

Spring doesn’t just change this year, it blossoms into summer. The twitter-pated fools bloom into merry men; the breeze still chills the skin and holds its tender moist kiss. But not me; I’m still the same. No new leaf to inscribe in, just a new year to begin. My time is running away at an unimaginable speed, and I plan to enjoy every second of it.
I throw open the barn-colored garage door with an excited panic. I gently remove the cover and toss it aside like trash. I reach for the handle and it shocks me; it’s like a “Hey good lookin’” kind of wink, just more painful, but we have an understanding. I put her in neutral, check the clearance and begin to push. Every inch seems to sparkle and glow with the radiance of the sun as she exits her shallow grave. She shakes off the dust as she rolls out of the garage.

My mom and girlfriend are worried I’ll turn out like the kid from Christine. I think they’re jealous.  But I love that car, every dent, every ding, every scratch, chip, and rusted out piece. I love the crappy AM radio, the holey seats, and the squeaky handles. My girlfriend doesn’t know this, but I love the broken passenger door handle, because I have to let her out like a gent would. “NO, I’m not going to fix it, Baby.”

Anyway, I push it out to the driveway. I grab the chamois, scrub sponge, wax, the wash bucket, and some soap. I fill up the bucket and scrub out all her dirt and grime.  The wax is everything though. You have to go top to bottom, left first, then right. It makes the waxing smoother and the paint shine like a million diamonds.

I wash and wax, wash and wax, wash and wax until I feel like I’ve got it just right. Now comes the hard part: driving the damn thing. But for no apparent reason it turns over like a new car, I push the gas pedal twice to get a little fuel in the motor and she fires right up. I drive the first route by myself to make sure the car doesn’t overheat.
The second time I take the car out is late that night. I’ve been waiting for this since the end of last summer: the night the wind changes; it gives the night a really romantic feel. I tell Brittany to hop in the car and I open the door for her. I slide across the hood to test the wax, slide too far and hit the dirt. “Yep it’s good.”

We don’t just cruise out, OH NO; I’ve been waiting for this all year. I do a big smoking burnout, throwing gravel and dirt every which way. I hit the first corner, slam the brakes and power slide; I howl like a wolf at the moon. I love every minute of it. Then the S curves right before the hill on the table. We float through, no not float...glide, we glide through. The breeze finally changes over. We no longer feel the soft moist embrace. Now the breeze is warm, not hot. It massages my shoulders with its warmth, and envelops me wholly. And it makes me wonder, is it fools to men or men to fools?

Stephen Ahrens-Myers