Cars

I spent part of last night drinking with some farmers in a bar in Ireland. I left before dark and hitched a ride across the green countryside, spinning yarns with some geezers.

Later on I discovered that my parents had given me the car of my dreams: A flimsy boxy car, apparently made in Communist Romania, painted a Naugahyde green and fitted out with a refurbished interior. I drove around a new city as though it was the 80s, stopping to enter a few buildings and navigating smoothly (if not particularly rapidly) through the sunny grid of the city's streets.

Upon returning to the raised expressway, I remembered that I had left an important bag in one of the buildings. Rather than driving back, I pulled the car off to the side and hopped down to street level to walk back. (It really wasn't a very swift car at all, but this is to be expected with Soviet manufactures.)

Bag retrieved, I returned to my car, only to find that its interior had been stripped clean by thieves and the car itself slid off the edge of the freeway. I watched it crumple sickly on the pavement. As it was made out of fiberglass I found I could smooth out the wrinkles, but to no avail. They had taken the engine.

I awoke. The car vanished. The city, I now realize, resembles Evanston, Illinois. I have never been there.