The ghost of the Volvo is haunting me. It seems like every time I get on the road, I see her drab, boxy body idling at a stoplight, chugging slowly but steadily—so steadily!—through an intersection. She is driven by old ladies and boys in thin, pilled t-shirts. She fills me with a mix of affection and betrayal.
Even on my way to Salsa Tacos—even then!
I pulled onto the freeway behind one, totally ancient and gross, and there was a gray and white cat curled up in the rear window. Not even in a carrying case! This is the thing I meant to tell you yesterday, when I said there was a thing I meant to tell you, but couldn’t remember. I remembered! The cat was big and sleek with gray paws, chilling on the ledge where the speakers go. When the Volvo rounded the curve of the on-ramp, the cat pitched forward and dug its claws into the back seat to keep from flying through the air. And I mean, honestly, there is no need for such gymnastics: the Volvo, when properly cared for, ought to turn on a dime.
The driver was a Mexican woman who was so small she had to crane her neck to see over the steering wheel. There was a pile of stuff, something like old stereo equipment, in the passenger’s seat.
I’m not sure what any of this means, but I think it has something to do with me not being crazed enough to own that kind of car. Thoughts?
I anxiously await a picture of you dressed as a nerd, and am curious to hear how the rubber chicken was received. In light of my not having a Facebook, post soon!
Weekdazed,
Ash
Your post brings several thoughts to mind:
ReplyDelete1. You still have not let me read your thesis, and you promised that I could when it was finished. Quit stalling and get me a damn copy, or I'll tell everyone about that time that you got diarrhea at Barnes & Noble. If you don't personally let me read it, I
ll find it at Shields Library and make out with some guy right in front of it ala "Friends." Seriously, Clarke. Gimme.
PS, Like how I referenced two of my favorite things within one sentence of each other?
2. A tiny Mexican woman driving a car that you used to have is no more a symbol than the time I saw Jeff Goldblum shopping at Claire's on Market Street was a symbol for Hollywood's political support for plastic jewelery and silken prom gloves. There were 589,000 of those cars made in 1981*). 37% of Californians claim to have some hispanic decent. And 50% of that 37% are women. 11.2% of Californians are over age 65. According to my calculations, your Latina driver could have been one of 752,000 possible culprits. Multiply that by the number of Volvos made that year, (again, 589,000**), and divide by the proportion of those care that we can assume are still in service in 2011 (I'd say it's around 46%***), and we have 203,746,880,000 possible combinations of elderly Mexican women driving Volvos. I rest my case.
3. I think that the real thing to take away from this story is that the cat was curled up in the back window. As evidenced by my little feline angels, cats do not curl up int he windows of cars. Rather, they prefer to knead the imaginary ball of pizza dough on your lap as you attempt to navigate your way through Sacrament gridlock. Clearly, this cat knows something that mine don't know, which leads me to believe that said car was an alien imposter under the guise of a gray-pawed ball of fluff.
4. Please get back on Facebook. You can get discounts by "liking" establishiments' profiles. And who are you to deny a dollar off of an afternoon of go-karting with 17 of your closest friends? Every dollar counts, Ashley.
*I pulled that number out of my ass.
**This is the same number as the one that I pulled out of my ass.
***This one too.