Just start, he pleads with the engine, turning over like a bucket of gravel rolling down a hill, the edges of the key twisted in the ignition digging into the sides of his fingers. He looks through the slit between the lifted hood and the thin strip of cowl at the air cleaner assembly wobbling on its perch on the fender, at the V-8 kicking and rattling, then rests his forehead on his knuckles rapped wrapped rapt around the sun-split rim of the steering wheel and recites the mantra, sparkfuelair, sparkfuelair, sparkfuelair, in time with the gallop of the starter motor.
Just start, he grunts, just get rolling, and he plants his shoulder into the chalky paint rubbing off the sheetmetal onto his jacket to strain every muscle in his body to push the car from its four-flat repose under a canopy filtering sunlight until it comes down pure to glint off the sweat dripping from his nose, the sweat sloughing off the soil that lines the cracks in his face, to sprinkle among the dead-leaf carpet at his feet. The tractor at the other end of the guitar string towrope plumes black smoke from its stack into a cloud that the wind takes to darken the sun, its deep-lunged growl rising in pitch.
Just start, he sighs, cursing the thicket of overgrowth he pulls out one thorny stalk at a time, just start making my life easier. The clods of earth explode when the tangles of roots they cling to let go, and the fine soil rains down on him as he tosses the stalks aside, reaching in further, clearing a path. His muscles ache, and he still can't see the headlamps he knows lie within, blind like the cavefish that hasn't seen the sun in eons.
Just start, he thinks, looking around his empty apartment, the shadows of framed pictures still hanging on the walls, the rows of vacuum trails in the carpet, the key on the counter, the deposit check from his landlord by his backpack full of tools. A slice of morning sun comes slanting down through his window, golden white, glowing like something solid, something he could put his hands on. He slides on his boots, laces them up, and hoists his backpack over his shoulder.
This article originally appeared in the July, 2014 issue of Hemmings Motor News.
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