by
Nate Jordon

(Ed. Note: this piece of flash fiction was featured in Fast Forward Volume 2 – I post this as an example for our flash fiction contests.  – NJ -)

$1500 is what I paid for that ’79 Pontiac Grand Prix. I bought it from my best friend’s father, Mr. Mesusan, when I was seventeen. It was burgundy with gold-colored rims and though the tranny slipped a bit, it had a pretty good Pioneer sound system, as long as the speaker balance was full right. I bought it from my best friend’s father, Mr. Mesusan, when I was seventeen. I gave him $300 cash and promised to pay him $100 a month for the next year. It was the summer before my senior year of high school and I was working construction, augering my ass off in the beastly Houston humidity.

Three weeks after I bought it, the Grand Prix got stolen—from a job site at Hypocrite Baptist Church. When my day was done, I walked over to the parking lot, covered in sweaty filth. It was Wednesday evening. Church services were about to be held. The empty space where my car was parked? Nothing there but shattered glass, surrounded by Cadillacs and Mercedes.

Now, I’m not sure what luxury sedans are worth, but I’m certain they’re worth more than old jalopy Pontiacs with bad transmissions.

Three days later, the cops gave me a jingle. They found my car. I took one look and just left it there in the junkyard where they put it. Just a heap of metallic crap.

I pleaded mercy from Mr. Mesusan, but he made me pay him the remaining $1200. But getting to work and school was going to be a problem. However, my best friend was nice enough to occasionally give me rides in his cherry, muscled-out ’64 ½ Mustang, blood red with gold flakes and Crager mag wheels, exhaust gurgling like a Sheridan tank as it rumbled down the street, so I could pay his father back.

Nate Jordon

When Nate isn’t driving jalopies with bad transmissions, he’s trying to write stuff and edit stuff and publish stuff and teach stuff.