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Home  Write Spot News A Future President?
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A Future President? |
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Written by Petunia
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Thursday, 12 October 2006 |
I swear, Jimmy, there are times I truly despair the future of our country. The other night was one of those times.
There I was, talking to a friend on one of the greatest and most evil inventions of the past century, the cell phone. The moon was full, the early evening air crisp, and the cats had arranged themselves around me as I sat under the ash tree chatting.
I noticed suddenly, in a brief lull in the conversation, that the crickets had stopped their incessant chirping and the cats' ears were all at alert, their faintly glowing eyes trained on the road. I glanced around to see a white car parked, its inhabitants calling to me, waiting for a response. (I should probably mention here that I am a tad near-sighted and don't see details more than three feet away from my nose very well. Not a problem for a voracious reader or a potion brewer, but really bad for identifying people and things at a distance.) Very hesitantly, I walked over to the car, bending down to clearly see its driver, a young man of relatively tender years and questionable sobriety.
“That yer guyses Buick Thunderbird?” he asked, gesturing to one of the cars parked in our driveway.
Startled and confused, I asked him to repeat his question.
“Is that yer guyses Buick T-bird right there?” he motioned.
“Well, Buick doesn't make the Thunderbird, but yes, it is my son's car.” I answered warily. What I know about cars can pretty much be summed in not very many words. I know where to put the oil, the transmission fluid and anti-freeze. Cars have four tires that need to be properly inflated. When something doesn't sound right, you need to have it checked. And Buick does not make the Thunderbird.
“Int'rested in selling it?”
“No, I don't believe so.” I informed the young man, glancing at his passenger, another troubled young man who happened to be our neighbor's son and knew darned good and well who owned the car and that it wasn't up for sale.
“Well, I jus' bought this one.” he said, indicating his own vehicle, “and I was lookin' fer some parts. Does it run?” Persistent little bugger, isn't he?
“Yes, it runs, though not very well right now. And it is not for sale.” I answered in a forced, patient tone.
“Pontiac doesn't make the Thunderbird,” he continued, “That's why I was confused when you said that.”
At this point, I'll admit to being completely flabbergasted. My friend, listening and patiently waiting on the cell phone, stifled laughter. I'm telling you, Jimmy, I think that boy was high or maybe had had a few drinks of something stronger than soda pop. There's just no way he could be so dense, surely.
“What's wrong with it?” the young man asked, still not believing or perhaps just not listening.
“The piston rings are blown. My son plans to fix the car, but he's saving the money to simply have a new engine put in rather than tinker with the old one, just in case.” I told him. “And it's not for sale.”
“Well, if he wants to sell it, I'd be int'rested. I just need, like the light thingies, and stuff..”
“I'll let him know, but IT IS NOT FOR SALE.”
“Ok, I'll check back later.” And the boys drove off.
I walked back into the yard, shaking my head in disbelief. To my friend, now chuckling loudly and uncontrollably, I said, “Oh my. To think that's our future. Wonder how long we'll last.” |
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Last Updated ( Wednesday, 11 October 2006 )
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