Comfort Car
by K. Jeffery Petersen

	Driving along through Tacoma, windows rolled down and radio 
blaring. All the sound comes from the back, because I ripped the 
speakers out weeks before when one of them got dented and started 
distorting everything. That's okay, though, because Erik and I had 
put in a pair of pickup truck speakers, jury-rigging them so that 
the wires are strewn out through the center of the car.

	They pump out a cool three hundred watts, and I make sure to 
use the most of it, even though my actual stereo is a bit crappy.

	My hair whips in the wind, dragging itself across my eyes 
and raising tears. I blink and push it out of the way. It's time to 
get it cut. Tying it back looks stupid, leaving it out is annoying. 
I also need a shave, as a bit of stubble is coming in and starting 
to itch. My facial hair grows just slowly enough that I can't shave 
it daily, but quickly enough that if I forget for a while, it gets 
really annoying.

	I wring my hands around the steering wheel a few times, 
sliding my fingers along the sweat-lined plastic and losing myself 
in the comfortable smoothness. If nothing else, my '75 Volvo is 
that: comfortable. Old sleeping back chucked in the back, old school 
assignments and car repair invoices crumpled up and on the floor, my 
games and bookbag on the passenger seat; it looks like shit, but 
it's my piece of shit. 

	The smell is slightly musty, the accumulation of odors over 
the three years since I last washed it, but I've long since gotten 
used to it. Cleaning it out is like cleaning my room: something to 
do only when I can't stand the way it looks or smells.

	Rush's "Marathon" starts playing on the mix tape I've got in 
the player, and I start drumming my hands against the wheel in time. 
It's the sort of song I just have to sing along with.

	So the chorus starts up and I belt it out along with them, 
slightly off-key, but I try and make up for that in enthusiasm.

	"From first to last--" I'm driving through the Procter 
district up in north Tacoma. Wide streets with regular deciduous 
trees. It's too nice here to be a planned community, just nice posh 
townhouses and friendly people working on their lawns. Upper middle 
class.

	"--The weak is never passed, something always fires the 
light that gets in your eyes." I pass by the Queen Ann Thriftway 
where I deliver bagels to. Final stop on the route with the largest 
drop. It looks different in the afternoon, with more people entering 
and leaving the light tan building with the green-trimmed entrance. 
I think for a moment about stopping by to talk to the bakery ladies; 
to see, perhaps if any of them are working this late.

	"One moments time, and glory rolls on by. Like a streak of 
lightning that flashes and fades in the summer sky." A couple in the 
next car over are staring at me. The man's jaw is slightly agape as 
he looks back and forth between the idiot in the beat-up Volvo and 
the road. The woman tries unsuccessfully to hide a smile on her 
face. I grin and raise my voice, almost sticking my head out the 
window. It's a great song, I want to tell them. Sing along! They 
take the first turn right they come across and I'm driving along 
alone again.

	I hang a left to head south.