B & E

The only Bush I trust is my own. That’s what the sticker in the rear window reads. The car is a small, white late model Chevy Cavalier. It’s a four door, but that’s more a joke than anything else. So much dirt covers the white paint that it looks grey. The shade of grey that skin looks on a dying person.

The car’s body is covered in pock marks from the doors of other cars. The paint on the front bumper and hood has acne-like scars from bugs that were never washed off.

Hanging from the rear-view is one of those yellow leaf shaped air-fresheners. Its sun faded and jaundiced. Its usefulness spent.

I try the handle. Just because. Because I’m here and I can. It opens. The weather stripping gives a little pop as the seal breaks and pulls away from the door well.

A dank, damp, wet dog smell over powers the small inside. Lying just underneath are the layered smells of stale cigarettes and old coffee.

The back seat is littered with newspapers from the last week. On the floor are discarded bags, wrappers, receipts and old Styrofoam coffee cups. A gallon of water sits on its side on top of the newspapers acting as a seven pound paper weight.

The driver’s floor mat is covered with sand and dirt. It stands out against the dark blue of the car’s interior. The column shifter in the center console holds several hair bands of different colors. The cup holder is filled with change. No quarters.

The top of the steering wheel is pitted with dry-rot. This is from cheap material used by the manufacturer. Hands leach moisture from the material of the wheel. It sits in the sun every day. Decay is accelerated by use and neglect. This is why Armoral is made.

Some people might call this car cute. Some people might call Brittany Spears or J-Lo cute. Some people don’t look very close.

Of course some people lose themselves in the breaking and entering of an automobile and fail to see the owner approach before its too late. Before there is nothing else I could seem to be doing except taking an illegal peek into her car.

She hasn’t said anything, but I can tell by her expression and walk that this is her car. Her gate is not relaxed. There is nothing leisurely or friendly about her body language as she approaches. I’m caught. Bent over with my butt sticking out the driver’s door.

She says, “Something I can help you find?,” she says, “Or are you alright on your own?”

At least she handles me with some sense of humor. I could be standing here with a face full of mace. That may still be an option.

I can’t think of anything to say. I have no reason for what I’m doing. None I could explain to another person. None she would understand.

I just shrug and walk away. I leave her standing next to her open door. I bet she makes sure it’s locked from now on.