I’ve been plagued with car troubles for a very long time. See, I don’t make much money even though I have a full-time job, I don’t work very hard so I can’t get a raise, and my car was old and broken.
Three out of four of its windows did not work anymore. I had to manually push them up routinely. My car smelled like a swamp with a dash of cigarette butts and a dollop of the other kind.
I perhaps could have saved some money over time but every three or four months something would break down – causing me to toss out three hundred dollars here and there and depleting my savings even worse than my Half Price Books habit or buffet food.
It all came to a catastrophic climax in early August when, one morning, as I headed out to write dick jokes at work and do nothing I was supposed to, my car just would not start. It wasn’t the battery, it was the computer system, and I was doomed.
Thus began a week of Uber and walking and getting rides from my dear patient girlfriend and panic. But a deus ex machina arrived in the form of my parents are middle-class Appalachian, which is poor for the rest of the country, but rich in cars that half work.
My new old car ran (poorly) for about three weeks. Then it broke down, as well. After it was finally fixed up, and I had pulled even more hair from my head than piss-poor genetics did, I wrote this series of prose poems:
Points in Case was kind enough to publish them.