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Return to the Road

2K views 6 replies 6 participants last post by  6treva9 
#1 ·
Pete Aron stands in front of the garage door, blankly staring at it. His breath is jagged and erratic, tiny beads of sweat dot his forehead and arms. Pete’s legs feel as if they are made of Jell-O and weigh a thousand pounds and in the pit of his stomach an unsettled fluttering.
At waist level is his right hand, clenched tightly closed. Fingers unfurl and reveal a tarnished, bronze colored key. Pete’s eyes lazily drift from door to key and back, holding on each one for several seconds.
He licks his lip his then struggles to swallow and extends hand and key for the garage door’s lock. His hand quivers as it reaches out. The key scrapes all around the lock but never goes in. Pete jerks his arm back down to his side and balls his fists. His eyes are squeezed shut and long breath inhaled and held. The air is released audible and slowly and eyelids raise. Once more his hand reaches outward and this time is more stable. The key grinds in to the lock. Pete’s grip readjusts. Turning the key, the lock snaps open and a hollow thunder booms and echoes through the door and forces Pete to flinch.
Pete’s fingers wrap around the T-handle of the door and hefts it off the ground. Metal creaks and hisses while the door glides along it’s tracks. A rattley thunk sounds when the door slams to the end of the track. Warm stale air slaps Pete in the face, followed by a light plume of wafting dust. Pete gazes through the settling cloud. A dark colored Mustang looms in front of him. A window in the back wall of the garage beams yellow sunlight inside. The light glints off the sharp creases of the body work and reflects back off the flat surfaces.
Pete steps warily into the garage and begins a slow paced inspection of the car. He first notices the thick layer of dirt and dust that has changed the color of the Mustang to a dark gray. There are also remnants of insect body parts lightly scattered over the surface of the car. Several laps reveal no dents or dings, rust or corrosion, scratches and gouges. Even the tires miraculously still have air within and are not cracked from dry rot.
He stops at the driver’s door and slides a hand in his jeans pocket. A ring, with key and fob attached, is retrieved. Pete thumbs the unlock button of the remote but does not depress it. He ponders if the Mustang’s battery has any juice left to operate the power lock. The button is pushed and the silver pin shoots up from the door and the dome light turns on. That more than likely used what was left of the battery’s power, Pete thinks.
A right hand cranes out for the door handle and lifts up. The door easily glides toward Pete without a pop, crack or squeak. He takes a deep breath and backs into the seat, then gently lowers his body past the bolsters, settling in the cushion. The leather has a cool chill sending a slight shiver down his back.
Pete pulls his right foot inside and leaves the left to scrape the concrete floor. He places the key ring on the console then clenches the steering wheel with both hands. The leather wrapping creaks form Pete’s near white-knuckle grip. His right hand instinctively releases the wheel and moves to the shifter. Fingers curl over the metal ball, then rapidly relinquish their hold from the cold surface. A moment is taken to look over the cockpit. His eyes adjust to the light and finds nothing out of place, just more dust and some cobwebs that will need to be cleaned out.
Pete takes up the key and ratchets it in to the ignition. Chiming begins, warning the driver door is open. His right hand slaps the shifter from first gear to neutral. He places his right foot on the clutch and depresses the pedal, then turns the key.
The engine begins to crank. It spits and sputters, trying to catch fire. An unsteady stream of blue smoke belches out of the rolled exhaust tips. Pete releases the key and the engine rattles to a stop.
Pete notices his heart is racing, breathing sharp and hearing heightened, as the door ajar chime sounds like a bell is placed over his head and somebody pounds on it with a hammer. The electric hum of the fuel pump is also easily recognized.
He readjust his seating position by pulling his left leg into the cabin and reaching out to the window rocker to lower the door glass. Pete then grabs the door handle to pull the door to. His hand slips off and realizes he has almost no strength in his arm but the door just barely latches completely closed, quieting the chime.
Taking a great amount of effort, Pete’s left foot shoves in the clutch pedal. He is not sure if the stiffness of the pedal is cause by the clutch itself or that his leg feels as if they are made of wet noodles. His right foot hovers above the throttle and right hand wraps around the ignition. Pete gulps down a few large breaths, then cranks the key over again.
Once more the engine spits and sputters trying to come to life. Pete pumps the accelerator, force feeding the engine extra fuel. More smoke bellows form the pipes, shifting for blue to white. The engine stutters like it is about to catch fire but Pete keeps on the starter.
Several seconds pass and the engine sounds like it will run without assistance. Pete releases the ignition and stands on the gas pedal. The engine catches and the RPMs shoot to over 4000. The needle hangs for a few seconds then eases down the gauge to 1200 RPM.
An awful high-pitched squeal suddenly sounds form under the hood. Pete knows that as the sound of a slipping belt or one of the engine accessories failing. He instantly reaches down and yanks on the hood release lever. Next, Pete throws the door open, rips himself from the seat, then slams the door shut and takes three large steps to the front of the Mustang. The squealing has ended by the time his hands are feeling the underside of the hood to open the latch, but he follows through anyway. Pete scolds himself for not having lifted the hood for and inspection already.
Under the hood, Pete glances for steam, smoke or spraying liquids. None seen so he kneels down to look under the car to find nothing leaking. He looks over the engine bay once more, finding cobwebs, more dead insects and their body parts along with bits and pieces of vegetation, such as evergreen needles, blades of grass and curled up scraps of leaves. Pete latches the hood back down, easily noticing where his hands have smeared through the dust and returns to the cabin.
The next fifteen minutes are spent letting the Mustang idle and come up to operating temperature. Pete spends that time listening to the engine’s slow pulsing exhaust reverberate around the garage and catching the occasional whiff of exhaust fumes. No other unusual sound is made by the Mustang that could elude to a catastrophic failure.
Pete eases down the parking brake handle, then slots the shifter into first gear. Simultaneously letting up the clutch pedal, Pete adds throttle. The car lurches forward when the clutch bites.
The Mustang is stopped a few feet out of the garage bay so Pete can close and lock the door. He strolls to the back door of the house and leaves the garage key under a doormat, as arranged with the homeowner.
Pete slides back down in the seat and this time takes a moment to buckle his seatbelt and make sure it is properly adjusted and snugged down. He again follows the procedure to take off and starts down the broken, potholed pavement of the neighborhood alley. A gap in between cars is seized and the Mustang accelerates out of the alley and merges into traffic.
 
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