Run On
The 26th landed on a Thursday, and I was wondering where the month had gone, where the summer had gone, and where the year had gone; the year that proved so detrimental to the world, and so chaotic within the realm of my consciousness; ipods and decapitations, a floodgate of worldwide terror and I’m still frustrated because I have not yet purchased an adapter to play my cute little device inside my Accord; the Accord one of three, the first an ’88, which was rendered a “total loss” after an underage driver with no license and a van full of five children under the age of ten and a grandmother turned left in front of me when I had the right of way; the right of passage, the last rights, and all the rights front and back and in between- they used to be all my rights, and now I feel them slipping from me, with more slipping every day; the second, a variety of the ’92 mold, “Smoke” it was called even though many deemed it darker, yet I remember it gray; current the black version, bought and paid for brand new, first of that nature for little me and my modest middle-class upbringing- my father knew the dealer, friend of a friend variety, and he told me because it was the end of the season or whatever I was to receive a sugarplum of a deal on the 2002 models, and I fancied that idea, and became even more enthused when I was informed that the revered V6 would be mine for no extra charge; only upon delivery, the 6 somehow became a 4, and dealer and company knowing I was not the type to complain or cause arrest, presented me with paperwork that I felt compelled to sign, particularly amongst the raves of my mother and pleasant feeling I incurred from the site of my very own pristine freeway burner- now, two years later and pleased with the performance, there is something that I had not yet realized until this moment when chronicling car one, two, and current- three cars encapsulating my youth, young adulthood, late teenage years, of-age status, early and now mid-20’s; this realization coming to me while tip-tapping my keyboard, and simultaneously recalling the pleasantries of long trips to San Francisco or Las Vegas, and short trips to a girlfriend’s house; occasionally those trips home in the early AM after a cursory or course engagement proved to be longer than those to a different state- now, at a point of sentimentality, I thought of the three girls who called themselves “girlfriends” of Mr. May, a first, who was driven in Accord #1 while she did not have a license, and then continued on that way until our departure, only to have the “total loss” occur less than one week following final breakup; she was never privy to my Accord #2, a smoky delight from New Jersey, where the salt on the road had corroded the shell underneath, only this was unbeknownst to me until I took the car into my own mechanic; apparently, the Garden State swindler had been in harmony with the Honda dealer who we took it to prior to the signing of the pink slip, as Mr. Honda Man had given me the wink, handshake, and tongue-click “A-ok!” go ahead that the car was in cherry pie, spic-span shape; how a period was avoided there is one of the most blatant disrespects of the King’s English and the Queen’s grammar ever invoked- yet here I am, back to my Accord accounts, and girlfriend #2, who I met while walking in her backyard to enter my car and drive home from school; her “backyard” isn’t exactly the proper terminology, although technically, it was in back of her house, and it was the property that she inhabited- a stand-on-the-roof and fire his shotgun type, the cracked landlord who owned the property turned the gravelly exterior of her house into a parking lot, and my apartment complex, adjacent to the facility, was convenient enough for me to leave my car there at night for a reasonable rate; on that day, March 31st I believe it must have been, she was there washing her own car, parked in the same lot, for nearly a year, but I had never seen her until that day- we conversed, and ultimately she became my second girlfriend, she herself born and nurtured in the homeland of car the second, she recounted fall leaves and falling snow, never saw my ’88 and would not be around to see my beloved V4, the road dog with over 40,000 California miles in a speck beyond two years- girl V singular, having seen car number one approaching a decade ago, went seven years without an encounter with your Accord toting narrator; she had never been inside #1, and never seen #2, so when we reunited last summer she was treated to an earlier-that-day washed encounter with #3, only she had something cute to say, commenting on the lackluster performance of the drive-through lunch hour apparatus that yielded less than full sparkle; yet despite her criticism, any thoughts or wonderings of the other two vanished as the months of strong eyes and stronger convictions laid their groundwork upon me; three girlfriends and three Accords, none of the terrain hoggers seeing more than one lady, and none of the ladies riding in more than one vehicle; they sat passenger in one car apiece, never inhabiting the former or the latter, and each being the wheel-bearer a single time; run on I think, run-on I do, run on it is.
Bryan May
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