Wednesday, May 06, 2009

Don't wear sandals Try to avoid the scandals Don't follow leaders Watch the parkin' meters

music by sylvie wibaut

Dear Car Buyer,

After several hours of second guessing and silly questions, phone calls and fears that you would not come, I sold you my car in a gravel driveway auto shop. witnessed by some old storage units and a tow truck. I tried to look tough, holding my words quick and tight against my lips. I felt it much like a card game or stand off, not wanting you to make a sudden move or shift your hands too much. And now I am sorry for thinking you would try and cheat. It is how I was raised. It is what I was told. And it was only after the lines had been marked and dollars exchanged that I loosened my grasp, of my chest and all those ideas of you. I had not thought before that you must think the same of me. Or that you must be tired after driving down from virginia. I wanted to tell you I was sorry my upbringing had made me skeptical, that I couldn’t help myself. or at least to try and step across some gap that had been preemptively placed in our paths. And all I could muster was a muttered question in spanish about mexico. but even so, i watched your back change shape to something more porud and I think my question must have offered some agreed sense of relief or perhaps a movement most like a string, being suddenly pulled from my life to yours. I think you must have understood. and my words began slowly stretching their syllables supriselingly painlessly across that lovely language. and we decided to stay and talk. you with your rusty wheelbarrow car tow and plaid shirt and I with my rough past tense verb usage. I was glad we talked about sandino and costa rican farms and your children. I laughed when I told you my car had a name. you said it had a soul and made a motion with your hands to the sky. Even your slightly codling and blatantly flirtaous reminders of how dangerous it was for such a beautiful lady to be walking rather than driving and the bold blunt exclamations of how linda and hermosa my name and hair and self were, were not troublesome or threatening, (as comments like those often are for me.) They only seemed to harmlessly settle you into your character.

Thank you for talking and for talking with me.

It was a rest from all those boxes I had been checking and buildings filled with paled faced people and paperwork. It was the book I stuffed in my closet with pictures from Nicaragua. Panama. Mexico. It was a truthful chance to say something and take my time saying it.

It was something with space. something better.



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