The worst part about rolling a car is that for whatever reason Spotify cuts out. I don’t know if it’s like my cell reception or the alignment of bluetooth ions or what, but the Lovin’ Spoonful bursts into a cloud of ear-piercing MPEG static for a split picosecond before the audio cuts out altogether.
Just kidding, I would never admit to listening to the Lovin’ Spoonful in public.
What actually happens is that my windshield collapses inward, the stock A-pillars giving way under the incomprehensible weight of the rest of the chassis suddenly pushing upon their corroded shell. Yep, I think, this car’s done, and throw a chunk of broken spark plug from what used to be the ceiling through the drivers’ side window.
I can hear the voice of reason start to drone on in my mind’s ear. I’ve gotten too far away from the garage, I think. A ‘58 Studebaker President really wasn’t the best choice after all for a car to enter into the illegal touge racing with. The common sense shakes out of my skull again when I catch a glimpse of the fine-ass Honda City 2 Turbo wheels fitted to the EG Civic that has pulled over to render assistance. Those things are fresh as fuck, I think, as I heft myself over the shattered frame of the Studie and climb atop it to survey the landscape.
The Civic owner is more interested in what he asserts is a comprehensive closed-head injury than in selling his wheels, even after I make a handsome offer. I give him my tastefully thick business card, which just has my name with “ODDITIES” scrawled beneath it in raised lettering. He’ll come around, I tell him, even as I grow faint and slump against the fender of his car.
As my vision darkens, the last thing I remember doing is eyeballing the backspacing. Perfect. A single tear rolls down my cheek.