Run On
By Bryan May
The 26th landed on
a Thursday, and I was wondering where the month had gone,
where the summer had gone, and where the year had gone; the
year that proved so detrimental to the world, and so chaotic
within the realm of my consciousness; ipods and
decapitations, a floodgate of worldwide terror and I’m still
frustrated because I have not yet purchased an adapter to
play my cute little device inside my Accord; the Accord one
of three, the first an ’88, which was rendered a “total
loss” after an underage driver with no license and a van
full of five children under the age of ten and a grandmother
turned left in front of me when I had the right of way; the
right of passage, the last rights, and all the rights front
and back and in between- they used to be all my rights, and
now I feel them slipping from me, with more slipping every
day; the second, a variety of the ’92 mold, “Smoke” it was
called even though many deemed it darker, yet I remember it
gray; current the black version, bought and paid for brand
new, first of that nature for little me and my modest
middle-class upbringing- my father knew the dealer, friend
of a friend variety, and he told me because it was the end
of the season or whatever I was to receive a sugarplum of a
deal on the 2002 models, and I fancied that idea, and became
even more enthused when I was informed that the revered V6
would be mine for no extra charge; only upon delivery, the 6
somehow became a 4, and dealer and company knowing I was not
the type to complain or cause arrest, presented me with
paperwork that I felt compelled to sign, particularly
amongst the raves of my mother and pleasant feeling I
incurred from the site of my very own pristine freeway
burner- now, two years later and pleased with the
performance, there is something that I had not yet realized
until this moment when chronicling car one, two, and
current- three cars encapsulating my youth, young adulthood,
late teenage years, of-age status, early and now mid-20’s;
this realization coming to me while tip-tapping my keyboard,
and simultaneously recalling the pleasantries of long trips
to San Francisco or Las Vegas, and short trips to a
girlfriend’s house; occasionally those trips home in the
early AM after a cursory or course engagement proved to be
longer than those to a different state- now, at a point of
sentimentality, I thought of the three girls who called
themselves “girlfriends” of Mr. May, a first, who was driven
in Accord #1 while she did not have a license, and then
continued on that way until our departure, only to have the
“total loss” occur less than one week following final
breakup; she was never privy to my Accord #2, a smoky
delight from New Jersey, where the salt on the road had
corroded the shell underneath, only this was unbeknownst to
me until I took the car into my own mechanic; apparently,
the Garden State swindler had been in harmony with the Honda
dealer who we took it to prior to the signing of the pink
slip, as Mr. Honda Man had given me the wink, handshake, and
tongue-click “A-ok!” go ahead that the car was in cherry
pie, spic-span shape; how a period was avoided there is one
of the most blatant disrespects of the King’s English and
the Queen’s grammar ever invoked- yet here I am, back to my
Accord accounts, and girlfriend #2, who I met while walking
in her backyard to enter my car and drive home from school;
her “backyard” isn’t exactly the proper terminology,
although technically, it was in back of her house, and it
was the property that she inhabited- a stand-on-the-roof and
fire his shotgun type, the cracked landlord who owned the
property turned the gravelly exterior of her house into a
parking lot, and my apartment complex, adjacent to the
facility, was convenient enough for me to leave my car there
at night for a reasonable rate; on that day, March 31st
I believe it must have been, she was there washing her own
car, parked in the same lot, for nearly a year, but I had
never seen her until that day- we conversed, and ultimately
she became my second girlfriend, she herself born and
nurtured in the homeland of car the second, she recounted
fall leaves and falling snow, never saw my ’88 and would not
be around to see my beloved V4, the road dog with over
40,000 California miles in a speck beyond two years- girl V
singular, having seen car number one approaching a decade
ago, went seven years without an encounter with your Accord
toting narrator; she had never been inside #1, and never
seen #2, so when we reunited last summer she was treated to
an earlier-that-day washed encounter with #3, only she had
something cute to say, commenting on the lackluster
performance of the drive-through lunch hour apparatus that
yielded less than full sparkle; yet despite her criticism,
any thoughts or wonderings of the other two vanished as the
months of strong eyes and stronger convictions laid their
groundwork upon me; three girlfriends and three Accords,
none of the terrain hoggers seeing more than one lady, and
none of the ladies riding in more than one vehicle; they sat
passenger in one car apiece, never inhabiting the former or
the latter, and each being the wheel-bearer a single time;
run on I think, run-on I do, run on it is.
Bryan May
bmay@emarketmakers.com
