It was speaking to me in a language I did not recognize. A soft, persistent tone came from the corner up ahead. I’d planned on turning right, the quick way to the subway. I went straight, feeling like something would meet me around the corner.
I could pull off the hubcaps and eat them. I’d crunch through the metal that would taste like dead skin.
The ’65 Dodge didn’t feel like an animal; its headlights didn’t look like eyes. If it did it might have looked like some huge red-tailed catfish, like the one that lived in Capitol Aquarium in Sacramento. Instead it just had the look of an old machine, deep cracks in the paint and pitted metal brightwork sharing a look of age with old loading equipment.
There was nothing to hide how it had been manufactured, assembled, mass-produced.
The car’s skeleton was so clear. I could see the springs under the seats and the engine through the solid, opaque hood.
I can’t believe people used to buy these hulking, hurried, uncoordinated collections of parts as cars. It looked like a bird’s nest. The strong breeze of a fender bender would break apart all of its little twigs and the soft eggs inside would crack.