He was a sixteen-year-old Toyota Corolla with a paint color called Mystic Teal Mica
and an engine that clanked in a steady rhythm like the beating of his immaculate metallic heart.
Harold had been my dad’s carin fact, Dad had named him Harold. Mom never sold him, so he stayed in the garage for eight years, until my sixteenth birthday.
Getting Harold’s engine running after so long took all of the four hundred dollars I’d saved over the course of my life—
allowances, change ferreted away when Mom sent me down the street to buy something at the Circle K,
summer work at Subway, Christmas gifts from my grandparents—
so, in a way, Harold was the culmination of my whole being, at least financially speaking.
And I loved him. I dreamed about him quite a lot.
He had an exceptionally spacious trunk, a custom-installed, huge white steering wheel, and a backseat bench clad in pebble-beige leather.
He accelerated with the gentle serenity of the Buddhist Zen master who knows nothing really needs to be done quickly,
and his brakes whined like metal machine music, and I loved him.
However, Harold did not have Bluetooth connectivity, or for that matter a CD player,
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