right hand pointing

Jeffrey Ransdell
 

          I’ve a warm spot in my heart for something that is not a car, even if the more pedantic call it a 1967 Chevy Impala, maroon with white convertible top.  I can forgive the error.  It looks remarkably like those things we call cars.  Only the most discerning recognize it as the cosmic collision of a rainy Saturday, two boys, double dating, Prom Night and the ultimate experimental proof of the chemical properties of wax.  In short - no matter how long you frantically rub, paste wax does not dry on a rainy day in the garage on your buddy’s mom’s new car.  You may achieve an interesting murky iridescence reminiscent of a thin coat of Vaseline, but no shine, even if it seems important.  As it turned out, it rained even heavier that evening.  No guys stood surreptitiously touching the finish, rubbing fingertips together to see if whatever covered the sheet metal could actually be felt as a separate entity.  No girls risked their hairdos in the rain.  We shouldn’t have worried about the wax. 
 

          I escorted Bonny Angeles, a girl who gave me peer status when her nickname Booby Angel was substantiated with the assistance of her heavenly low cut dress.  I accepted the necessity of fox trots and paper cups of Kool-Aid, buoyed by those twin promises of erotic exploration later that night, listening to rain on canvas in a distant and preoccupied way.  We sure weren’t going to worry about the wax then. 

          But it was innocent despite my supercharged expectations.  We didn’t get drunk or laid or run over a dog that night, or get a job, pay bills, raise a family and worry about retirement.  We didn’t go to Viet Nam that night.  We played at being grown up.  With cummerbunds and corsages we tasted it… then stepped back from the brink.  We put on jeans to hang with our buddies after the prom.  For a tiny bit longer we stayed kids who would wax a car in the rain.     
 

          I saw a picture of a ’67 Impala recently.  I got that funny ache in the back of the throat that happens when you’re just about to cry, except since men don’t cry we just put up with the ache and wonder if Tums will help.  I didn’t see a car in the picture, but I knew something lost was there.