chevy

It is–at last–a cool grey day in glassland, not quite raining but wanting to, sweet relief from the last month’s desert heat. I’m on the way home from an afternoon of errand-running, partly to get things done but mostly to feel the back-to-normal, tad-too-chilly northwest air moving through my car’s open window.

I pull up to the light only halfway in the world; my brain’s musing studio tasks and content projects while NPR drones in the background. The reporter mentions the Cash for Clunkers program, and I finally notice I’m behind a clunker.

Say rather, a classic. It’s a Chevy Impala with the crossed checkered flags on the back. Late 50s, early 60s, about a mile wide from fin to fin, mint condition and shiny with wax. It’s candy-apple red with a white hardtop and enough chrome to plate a small country. There’s a pair of fuzzy dice hanging from the rear view mirror–whoever owns this car has gone to town on the restoration–and it’s sending a heavy tang of exhaust my way.

The car is, in a word, cherry.

By the time we get to the next light I’ve pulled up alongside. The Chevy’s driver is a white-haired guy about 70, full beard and squared-off black sunglasses, in a plain white t-shirt. He’s smiling gently and nodding his head in time to Presley’s “Now or Never.”

He glances my way; I smile and give him a thumbs-up sign. He returns it with a grin and nudges the lady beside him; she leans forward, smiles and giggles.

I note that the lady really is sitting beside him, the way people used to do in movies, when cars had bench seats in front and no center consoles. It seems a much friendlier and far more romantic way to ride than today, when we’re stiffly perched in our own little buckets, chastely separated and alone.

He points to my lane, I nod, and when the light changes I let him zoom ahead. The lady moves in closer and settles her head on his shoulder. He wraps his arm around her and signals for a left turn. As I watch, he strokes the dashboard, then heads down the freeway toward the beach.