Member-only story
Wheels
A Short Story
The day I learned how to drive a car is etched in my memory for all the wrong reasons. You see, I come from an illustrious family of automobile lovers, starting with my grandfather. It was only natural for my childhood clique — my brother, a cousin, and me — to aspire to drive cars rather than ride bicycles, the more appropriate form of transportation for someone my age.
I often went with my grandfather as he took his cars to the repair shop. Once asked him if that was a parking spot that he had rented for his chronically ill car. His sense of humor, which was abundant, did not extend to his cars. He prohibited me from being anywhere near his cars for two whole weeks. Cars were his jewelry. Every morning he would spend about an hour detailing his cars, cleaning them inside and out. It was a meditative experience for him. He often emerged in a great mood after spending time with his cars.
One morning, the three of us waited behind a small bush as my grandfather polished the chrome bumpers with a muslin cloth. His hands worked at a furious pace until he could see the reflection of his face on the bumper. When we spotted a satisfied smile, we approached him. I dialed the pitch of my voice a notch lower to sound older than I was and asked him if he would let us learn how to drive one of his cars. He said “Pakla” and walked away. “Pakla” was a convenient word…
