One day, not long ago, the car would not start. Grey SAAB. Syracuse. 1977. Why?
Why should it start? Seven inches of snow accumulated on the roof and hood. Crisp, crunchy on top and fluffy below, easy enough to push it off but the cold grips all and has frozen the car, the motor, the oil. Why should she wake up? She is sleeping deeply and numbed by the freezing air. Gusts of wind blow a few flakes into swirling devils along the street. Not inspiring. Nothing to warm or encourage. Just destiny. Got to get to school. Got to get to work. Want to go to a concert tonight. We have comps for Billy Joel and I want to break loose the wheels that are frozen tight into icy ruts. Buried up over the bumper in dirty snow scraped from the street.
My gloved hands command, turn the key, speak with urgency, but finally give up. Silence. Not tonight. Not tomorrow morning. But maybe...try again when the noontime sun has warmed the street and the car. Maybe then, the damn car will start. I walk crunch, crunching, along in the empty plowed street to the bus stop. The quality of sound in the dark when the temp is below zero, is bright and crisp as the layer of crusty ice that covers everything. Yet all sounds are muted and the bus moves in slow motion.
Yes, well the seats sucked and the acoustics sucked so was it worth it? We had comps so...
