The Red Car
A short story.
Tonight, Ben, Nick, and Lee are out front drinking Coors Light 22-ouncers and hanging out with the red car. The summer streetlight loves them but doesn’t quite reach my upstairs office windows where if they looked up, they’d see me writing my feature on trash dumps of the ancient Americas for Archaeology Magazine. Not that they know what I do with my evenings. Or my days. I’ve never seen them do this before, but I think I know why they’re out there. And it’s my fault. Or at least I share in the blame.
The red car belongs to Ben, my neighbor three doors down on the corner, in his late 60s or so who always wears dark, well lived-in Dockers and an untucked flannel shirt over his lanky scarecrow frame no matter the weather. It’s a two-door with a rounded back, its rear window more horizontal. A sports car that’s lost its flash like some track star with emphysema. I bet Ben ran track if anything based on his build, too scrawny for the football team. I don’t actually know Ben’s real name — or any of their names. So in the absence of the facts, I riff on what I do know. I call Ben “Ben” for that 1980s TV movie about a mentally disabled man starring Mickey Rooney even after I remembered the actual title is Bill. Ben is not disabled, though he does live alone.
