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I walked down to the mechanic to have one final beer with Red; it just felt like the right thing to do. It’s not that Red was anything special, just a beat-up ’87 Saab 900, but he meant a lot to me; he was my first car. I cracked two beers, sat one on the bonnet for Red, and began reminiscing about the good times we’d had. “Remember that time we took a road trip north and met that group of girls?” I asked.
“Of course I do,” he replied, in a thick Swedish accent. “They were driving a ’95 Fiat Bravo; we spent the night together in the parking lot.”
“I didn’t realise cars were into that sort of thing,” I said; I wasn’t even surprised that Red could talk.
“Sure we are; that’s what makes being a car so hard; you have all the wants and desires but no control. It’s like being completely paralysed. People abandon you in the rain, fill you with used takeaway containers, park you illegally, and there’s nothing you can do.”
“That does sound difficult,” I said.
“The worst part is that cars actually love to dance; we enjoying weaving in and out of traffic, twirling around roundabouts, and sauntering through parking lots. Undercover parking lots are like nightclubs for cars – it’s an intimate dance, in a room full of people, with light that hides your cosmetic inadequacies.”
“I hope I didn’t upset you,” I said.
“Are you kidding? We had a blast: weekly baths, regular exercise, and frequent chats. Before you, I had a pretty tough run. My first owner was an executive wanker who discarded me after just six months, he was followed by a single mother with two messy children, and then I was owned by a 17 year old girl who referred to me as Lipsy. You see, the hardest thing about being a car is that you don’t get to choose your owner, but if I could, I would choose you.”
“That’s nice to hear,” I said.
“Of course I do,” he replied, in a thick Swedish accent. “They were driving a ’95 Fiat Bravo; we spent the night together in the parking lot.”
“I didn’t realise cars were into that sort of thing,” I said; I wasn’t even surprised that Red could talk.
“Sure we are; that’s what makes being a car so hard; you have all the wants and desires but no control. It’s like being completely paralysed. People abandon you in the rain, fill you with used takeaway containers, park you illegally, and there’s nothing you can do.”
“That does sound difficult,” I said.
“The worst part is that cars actually love to dance; we enjoying weaving in and out of traffic, twirling around roundabouts, and sauntering through parking lots. Undercover parking lots are like nightclubs for cars – it’s an intimate dance, in a room full of people, with light that hides your cosmetic inadequacies.”
“I hope I didn’t upset you,” I said.
“Are you kidding? We had a blast: weekly baths, regular exercise, and frequent chats. Before you, I had a pretty tough run. My first owner was an executive wanker who discarded me after just six months, he was followed by a single mother with two messy children, and then I was owned by a 17 year old girl who referred to me as Lipsy. You see, the hardest thing about being a car is that you don’t get to choose your owner, but if I could, I would choose you.”
“That’s nice to hear,” I said.