Amy drives a Ford of some sort, a two-door that still has enough paint to allow one to tell that it once was purple. Long parallel scratches go down the side, as if Amy brushed against a rake. There are bits hanging off here and there, flapping in the breeze or dragging on the ground. Most of the bits are inconsequential–weather stripping, trim, and the like. None of the parts of the bumper that are dragging on the ground seem critical, which is good since the bumper has clearly seen plenty of use. Other parts that are barely hanging on are the types of things that some people might find important, like headlights. Both headlights turn on, but one is good for little more than signaling to passing aircraft.
The motor makes a sound somewhere between a rumble and a wheeze, a moan that seems to come from below the pavement, from some circle of Hell deep below the Earth’s crust created just for automobiles.
One night after she had been drinking Karen the Irish Bartender dubbed the left rear window “the pukie window” because it has no glass. It saves a lot of locking and unlocking, and on occasion I have used it for a headfirst dive into the back seat. The seatbelts are the kind that run along a track when the door is closed–uh, that should be “ran”. They’re not running anywhere anymore.
Still the car steadfastly soldiers on. If you’re ever in PB and you see this car groaning down the street, give Amy a wave.