Ole Blue

He rounded the bend of Ladd Landing Way at its intersection with the I-40 on-ramp as the patrons of a nearby fuel station scanned about for what housed the raucous engine. His ‘95 Oldsmobile, baby blue all save for rust, sputtered like a dying man up the hill to the stop sign with a load of scrap metal which like the limbs of a wintered tree stuck out from three windows and its trunk.

“C’mon now!” He smacked the car’s side as one might a difficult horse.

“If ya don’t wanna stop for that sign, Ole Blue, I won’t blame ya fer it!”

The engine bellowed and heaved and the Oldsmobile bucked through the intersection and across the lot of the fuel station but overshot the target pump by five yards and there it died.

“Hot damn if you could hit a tunnel with a train, Blue! Shit.”

He shifted the transmission to neutral, opened the creaking door and stood. Other patrons snickered and jeered. He rounded the car’s front and placed his hands on the hood so as to push the Oldsmobile back within reach of the hose. He acknowledged his spectators as they eyed his peculiar load.

“She thinks she’s a damned pickup, folks. I just don’t have the heart ta tell ‘er any different. You?”