White-walled Tires

 

Photo Credit: User:Dante Alighieri

By his sunken cheeks and tobacco-dried skin – his wispy physique and broom-head hair – he was more stuck in the past than setting a trend. The coppertone four-door luxury Oldsmobile with the thin white walled tires said as much, but the high gloss wax and bright white sparkle, belied a certain care for appearances which the driver did not mirror. Maybe his wife demanded the pristine appearance of at least one thing she owned. He could at least talk back, laying claim to what was left of his person, his style, his swagger – which included the shy reluctance he expressed while exiting his car.

 

“Damn,” he thought, as each opening of his car door revealed another car, coming with speed, around the corner. “Double damn,” as the post office drop off box, informed him pick up wasn’t until 5 PM that night. He had hoped driving to the post office would mean quicker delivery of the payment. The one that needed to get to the bank before the closure threats became reality.

 

The trailer wasn’t much, not even double wide, and almost as old as he was – he bought it secondhand for what he thought was a good price. No, he didn’t have all the money and the stent in the pen made credit hard to come by – but he had gotten some advances on his paychecks, and everything was hanging in the delicate balance that exists between making money and paying for life.

 

The disruption came that February when an annoying cough married the flu and the children they spawned were pneumonia and something the docs called respiratory failure. Insurance was so damn expensive that he failed to apply, so the bills piled up while money dried up, and the only calls he receives now are from the collectors. He disconnected his phone, broke his cellular contract, and relies heavily on the car and the USPS to connect with the outside world.

 

He thought of all of this, standing in front of the boxes, “not a damned thing I can do about it now,” and he shrugged his shoulders, turning his hands palm side up and went back around to the driver’s seat. He punched in the cigarette lighter, waiting impatiently for the red light to come on, twitching the cigarette between his index and middle fingers with his thumb. When the lighter was finally hot, he pressed the cigarette to it and drew a deep breath. 

 

For a moment, a peace settled in his body…

 

then the coughing came, rattly and wet: jolting his body in and out until a small amount of phlegm finally exited his mouth to the pavement. “Damn, these things are gonna kill me,” and he stuck the cigarette back between his lips, placing the car in gear, and pulling out in front of a Prius, which honked in one long blast, but so softly, he never heard it above Patsy, standing by her man.