One might even, this early in the story, call the car itself a character. I am attempting to tell it as best I can, and to that end I have included characters: Boyd, the woman on the phone, my fiancee. “Forty dollars,” she chimes, “cash only.” These are the first and last words she says to me, an all-purpose greeting and farewell, like ciao or aloha. In a curt, incontestable manner, the woman tells me I must get my car today. With detective resolve, I track down the salvage yard, then call for instructions. They don’t know the phone number of the wrecker service and are barely sure of the name. When the police found my car, they had it towed. It cannot be given back except, of course, in pieces. When something is taken, it cannot be replaced.
STEVEN BOYD NIGHT MOODS TV
Involuntarily you will peek around corners, leave extra lights burning, learn to sleep with the TV on, buy a dog, or worse. Aftershocks are common, complete restoration impossible.
Instead clean up is the single self-affirmation, picking up the pieces, as they say. Only regret seems out of place, as if there were some foolproof method by which it could have been prevented: if only I’d taken the time, spent the money, protected myself when I had the chance. In different measure perhaps, but they are all still present. Violation is too strong a word, a word to describe rape or murder. “Who would want to steal your car?” she asks. The exhaust pipe belches smoke like a dragon when it accelerates. Two prominent dents run the perimeter of the front tire wells, and the side mirrors do not match.
The radio has been broken beyond repair for years, and there are Stick-Ups in the trunk to drive away the smell of invisible things dead and dying.
STEVEN BOYD NIGHT MOODS MOVIE
Blue Thunder, I call it, because it is blue and sounds like the helicopter from that movie every time it turns over. Perhaps this is what the talk-show hosts truly mean when they speak of male bonding. Our stories are somewhat different, but mostly they are the same.
I listen to the details of his story, then tell him mine. It’s been nine hours since the theft, and the police haven’t returned his calls. He calls me for information mostly, though I suspect some sympathy, as well. His car, like mine, was stolen from the apartment complex where he lives. Like me, he is both a little poor and a little cheap. My friend and a fellow writer, Boyd drives an ‘85 Monte Carlo that he works on when he has the time and the money. My friend and a fellow writer, Boyd drives an ‘85 Monte Carlo that he works on when he has the time and the money.īoyd White’s car has been stolen.
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