The shape of a Dodge

I can hear distant rumble. Not quite thunder: the sound of a groaning engine. Then I see the source: an old pickup truck approaching from the east. It’s an old Dodge, a ’31. It hitches up the road, chassis vibrating like a washing machine. It was black when new, but now it’s the color of rusty rainwater, the hood stained with deep splashes of raw metal.

It’s my father’s Dodge.

I don’t remember his truck being this badly out of shape, but years and years have passed since the last time I saw it. Even the imagination gathers rust.

In the imprecise light of the day, I can see the shape of a man inside the cab. He’s looking at both sides of the street, glancing only occasionally at the road in front of him. I know that gesture; it’s the same one Archie Dollar made when he was working out the logistics for a job. But this man – my father? – had a more restless nature.

The shape of the driver is little more than a silhouette; featureless and obscure. It could be anyone. But a boy remembers his father. The hunch of his shoulders, the restless curiosity, the way he grips the steering wheel as if it would get away from him; his shy, distracted smile, the lost look in his eyes. Of course, I can’t see those details, but I can, if I look hard enough, if I pulled away all the shadows. The Dodge rumbles past the Handsome Apartments and slowly rounds the corner of Elm Street. I shouldn’t be able to see the full length of Texas Street, but I can. The engine noise slowly faces into nothing and the street is empty again.

Excerpt from Ordinary Handsome

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