Tuesday, 25 September 2007

THE CAR by Gloria Moress

(The assignment was to describe an object so the emotional state of the narrator (point of view/character) is revealed without telling the reader what the emotional state is or what motivated the "said" state.)

We bought the car when I was about 36 weeks pregnant, because we both had utes. I was shown two to test drive: a red Camry and a white Falcon. I chose the Camry. We bought the Falcon. That was nearly seven years ago. It hasn’t been looked after at all. The paintwork is marred with trolley scrapes and stone chips, and there are dull patches on the bonnet where the cats sleep. The headlight protector that remains is cracked – better that than the headlight itself, I suppose, but it looks dreadful. The other day my youngest son snapped off the front passenger sun visor. He was terrified of my reaction, but I didn’t have much to say, besides, “Don’t worry, accidents happen.” My older son peeled half the tint film off his window to amuse himself on our last long car trip. It kept him quiet.

There are cigarette burns in the carpet, all though my husband is not supposed to smoke in the car, but you can hardly see them under the dirt, gravel and chaff on the floor. The seat upholstery is stained and the dash is covered in a layer of dust. There is a muddy footprint on the console, too, and cobwebs in the corners of the rear windscreen.

The CD player hasn’t worked for eighteen months. I think there is a ten-cent piece in it. I don’t mind the radio, but you can’t always get reception. I was driving a friend somewhere back in March and she pointed out that one of the shockies had gone, it was just another noise to me. I know it needs a steering alignment; the shudders at 100km/hr are pretty obvious.

Today as I wound down the window to get the mail, the window just stuck, halfway, refusing to wind in either direction. Of course we are in the middle of a rainy spell, and I can’t get in to the garage because of all the junk. Never mind. I’ll tell my husband when he comes home for lunch.

Gloria Moress ©

No comments: