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8:52 p.m. - 2002-06-22
'66 Mercury Montclaire
Fuck new car smell.

For me, there is nothing so sweet as the scent that fills my nostrils when I sit in an automobile that has seen more days than I have. The lingering coats of Armor All, the sun baked upholstery, the dozens of long gone tree shaped air fresheners that have dangled from the rear view mingling with the stale reminder of the days before second hand was used in the context of smoke or the car in question.

I miss my baby. I bought her from a coked out fisherman who was more in need of the $500.00 than the treasure he would trade me in the form of transportation. The steering wheel was thin hard plastic. The dials were lit up by shining bulbs rather than self-illuminating needles and numbers. The seats were as soft and long as the couch in my living room, and the passengers could stretch out and relax, lean forward to talk or shout to be heard over the distance betwixt their fellow travelers.

It gave one the feeling of driving a room around, and in public the occupants felt as though they were fish in a bowl as heads turned and people looked. Safety felt like it was afforded not through inflatable cushions that would expand on impact, but simply because there would be a good five feet between you and the object that would dare try to stop your forward movement.

My girl. Power steering, power brakes, and a power window at the rear that allowed the wind to whistle through and brought up images of shooting a tommy gun at the pursuing fuzz.


Oh how I miss her.


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