Travis says, “I decided that my muse is a fat nagging housewife.”

“What?”

“Yeah. I was thinking about what kind of personality my muse would have—that’s what I came up with. She eats hostess cakes by the handful!”

Nick laughs. “I could see that actually: Travis! Travis! What’s that God awful noise? What’re you doing in there? I’m going to get your father!”

“Go away! I’m busy,” Travis says, playing along.

“You better not be playing with yourself! You’ll go blind!”

They both laugh.

“Mine’s probably a big black woman from an episode of Jerry Springer,” Nick says.

Travis jerks his head to the right and left. “Damn! I know you ain’t paintin’ that shit with my inspiration.”

Holding his hand up flat in Travis’s face, Nick remarks, “Don’ be comin’ ’round here tryin’ to paint that shit wit’ me,” He stops to turn the radio on, chuckling. It’s “Santa Monica” by Everclear and Nick starts banging on the steering wheel to the beat. “Speaking of pizza,” Nick starts, “I was talkin’ to Jim today. He showed some of my slides to a guy up in Pittsburgh. Turns out I might get to show my stuff alongside Jim.”

“For real?” Travis asks.

“Yeah.”

“Dude. That’s great.”

“I’ll probably go up there for two or three weeks in August. And the gallery’ll know later this month if I’ll be in the show. We’re shipping them some more slides to look at first.”

“That’s excellent, man.” Travis thinks about it. “Pittsburgh, huh? That’s a ways.”

“The lease is up at the end of this month, right?” Nick asks.

“Yep. I’m amazed we made it.”

“Do we know what we’re doin’ after that, yet?”

Travis shrugs. “Do we ever know what we’re doing?”

“Well, we can extend it ’til August if we want. Most people won’t want to start leases until September anyway. Ian and I were looking at some places last week—houses actually.”

“Yeah. You, me, John and Ian.”

“That’s the plan.”

“Cool.”

“Man, the four of us living in one place…”

“That might be a little scary,” Travis agrees, chuckling. “The Fat Kid and I found a nice little number over on Habersham actually. It’d run about two-fifty a piece—a thousand a month.” Nick thinks about the numbers. “That’d be good. I could handle that.” Nick sits up a second.

“Hey. I don’t think Karen’s keeping her house. We should ask her.”

“Yeah,” Travis agrees. “Her place is the shit.”

“God, I can’t wait to move out of our place. It’s such a shithole,” Nick says with sudden distaste.

“Home is where you take a shit.”

“Yeah. I mean with all of us there and all it’s tolerable, but whatever persuaded us to get it in the first place…” and Nick rolls his eyes.

“It could definitely use some work,” Travis admits. Beating his hands on the steering wheel, now in time with Frank Black, Nick replies,

“Somebody should burn it down.”

Travis scratches his head. “We still got a month or so.”

“Yeah. You get the goods and I’ll get the movie,” Ian replies, moving on down the sidewalk. Nick and Travis walk around the corner of Clayton and down North Thomas Street to one of the city parking lots on Washington. Entering the lot, they make their way over to a twenty-year-old, faded lime-green Ford Montego. With a loving pat on the roof, Nick gets in and leans over across the long, plush velvet front seat and unlocks the door for Travis. Even though he is six-foot-five, it is still a stretch for Nick to reach the passenger door, the cabin’s width being what it was.

Travis gets in as Nick starts the car. The engine comes to life and Nick pats the dashboard sweetly. “That’s it, baby,” he says as he revs the engine a couple of times.

Bouncing in his seat a little, Travis smiles at Nick. “I haven’t ridden in Her Majesty in a while,” he says as Nick pulls out of the parking spot and heads toward the nearest convenience store.

Many years ago, Nick had been the recipient of this incredible automobile inheritance. His parents bestowed upon him ownership of the majestic Montego, a massive and powerful machine. A relic and an ark, a rambling tank, a lime-o-sine, a gashog behemoth. So many words can be found to describe such a vehicle, for it was the only one of its kind and uniqueness assists vocabulary.

For a long time, the car was a burden on Nick. It was old and crotchety and sometimes gave trouble when unwanted, before tests or dates. It was pale in comparison to some of the newer, prettier cars that Nick’s schoolmates got to drive. He drove the Montego reluctantly, cursing every click, every jolt, dealing with the innards only when forced. And for the Montego, this was nothing new. At twenty-years of age, ancient by any standard of the automobile industry, it had seen enough and been driven enough that driving down that last tunnel to the great country road in the sky didn’t seem too terrible a fate.

Then, something happened. As strange as opposites that attract, as peculiar as romance that blooms from detest, Nick found himself driving the Montego with delight. It settled on him, in him, and him in it. He discovered the beauty of the faded color and rust spots, discovered practicality in the size of the backseat with a girlfriend, and knew there was power inherent in watching the gas gauge drop when the accelerator pedal hit the floor, and the V8 roared.

On its twenty-first birthday, Travis and Nick poured a beer on its hood, and the Montego had found new love. As the kiss of the hops washed over its metallic belly, it felt the liquid soak her insides with new life and vigor. And as love sometimes does, Nick’s concern for the vehicle seemed to reverse time’s effects. The Montego grew younger. It pepped up, thinned up, became more solid then it had ever been. Though rusted in spots, its steel hunkered down. It went from car to the revered status of treasure; from junk to antique. It found it had meaning, instead of just function; that it had shed its object nature and could take part in conversation. The Montego found that what had once been a generic model title was now a namesake, and that the word it no longer suited her.

“Twenty-one years and the transmission’s never been touched. How ’bout that!” Nick would declare to new riders, leaning proudly on the hood.

Even those who could not understand the transcendence of Thing to Soul came to know that Nick’s love for the Montego was something to be jealous of. It was a feeling not meant for the hundreds of thousands of mass-produced vehicles infecting the road, void of individualism. It was a feeling for the particular, for the singular, the unique. So, Nick brought the Montego with him to college without question. He embraced her fully and made her one of the first relics of his new life. She was to be with him everywhere he chose to ramble. She became the chariot of the Gods of the Ridiculous, a masterful stroke in this pointless epic tale. She was the Hera to the Thunderchicken’s Zeus. Most important of all, though—she was aware.

One day, just before June, Nick had been considering the possibility of acquiring a new car—not a mistake in itself. The Montego was old, her days were numbered, that much could be granted. But one does not discuss coffin sizes in front of their mother. The mistake Nick made was to discuss the matter with Travis while driving the Montego, and she didn’t take kindly to it. When Nick and Travis arrived home and went inside, they found John and Ian watching television and began discussing the details of the night’s plans—only Nick couldn’t pay too much attention. A buzzing was ringing in his ear that left him feeling disoriented. Finally, the nagging tone forced him to check reality and ask, “Does anyone else hear that?”

The group quietly listened and agreed that a sound of some kind was emanating from outside the apartment. And when the group listened more closely they all realized that it was the sound of a car horn. Nick went to the door to see what kind of wreck or tragedy was producing the voluminous whine. When he opened the door, he looked out across the rows of cars, and gradually his hearing honed in on the sound, and centered on the Montego. “I’ll be right back,” he’d said to the gang, and began walking toward her. As he approached, and the dismal sound grew louder, a wave of worry washed over his stomach. Something was wrong. Was it trivial or was the horn merely an indicator of something more serious, something fatal even? The horn, blasting out into the parking lot, resounding off apartment building walls, resembled more that of a lone howling wolf. It was not the tone of a scream, an irritated bark in a traffic jam after being cut-off. It was sad. She was crying.

The boy’s came to the door of 3D to see what the matter was. Neighbors stood by their windows to seek out what was disturbing the quiet afternoon, and all eyes watched as Nick placed his hand upon the door handle, and the howling ceased—instantly vanished.

It was then that Nick realized his mistake, and he sat in the plush, velvet interior and hugged the steering wheel with a sincere apology and recognized that age is a simple matter of unavoidable consequence. No one asks to grow old and fall apart. Rationalizing death by talking about deficiencies is not encouraging to souls affected by time against their will. Travis turned to John and Ian and smiled. “Let’s give them some privacy,” he said, walking in and shutting the door behind them.

She lingered, she waited, she drove, and she loved the boys. And if she couldn’t sit with them in their midnight reveries, prattle with them philosophically in coffeehouses, or joke mischievously in bars, she could take them there and make sure they got home. And she did it with grace.