Cold car morning
or; snapshot #3
from 
JoeUser Forums
JoeUser Forums
One of my favorite things to write is a snapshot of the moment; exactly what things are like in that exact instant – my emotions, etc. (The first two that I've posted can be found here and here.)
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Stark blue skies hang heavily over the valley. The mountains were salted well last night, rightly covered in the nasty white stuff.
I sit in the driver's seat of my car. It's cold this morning; you can see your breath inside the vehicle. The back windscreen is a solid sheath of ice, the front peppered with small, intricately designed frostkisses. I pull out my key, forcing it slowly into the keyhole, depressing the clutch, turning my hand, bringing the sleeping beast, my Rocinante, to life.
Shivers. I quickly turn the defroster all the way up, frigid air coursing from the dash, assaulting the front windscreen and pouring back into my face. It takes the CD player a moment to cue up the disc, but finally the sonorous sounds of the JC Ronikal disc I burned the other day begin to fill the frozen car with waves of sound.
I slam my hand down on the rear defrost button, flooring the gas just a moment, again, wait, again, wait, again, to warm the catatonic engine up. Finally the sub-zero air begins to flow with life, as the stereo blasts forth the refrain, “Everything happens for a reason . . .” I wonder whose voice that is.
The back windscreen is quickly thawing out, rivulets of icy water running down in thin lines between the remaining straits of ice. The frostkisses covering the front begin to sublime, skipping liquid entirely, escaping into the atmosphere, waiting for the chance to encounter Rocinante again.
I look out the windscreen, searching for the trees in the distance. Each is wreathed with a thick circle of leaves. Finally having shaken free their last, dying leaves, they stand tall, naked, obstinate in the face of the impending storm. The oak remains stately, even minus his powerful, imposing covering, stripped down to the barest of bones.
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Stark blue skies hang heavily over the valley. The mountains were salted well last night, rightly covered in the nasty white stuff.
I sit in the driver's seat of my car. It's cold this morning; you can see your breath inside the vehicle. The back windscreen is a solid sheath of ice, the front peppered with small, intricately designed frostkisses. I pull out my key, forcing it slowly into the keyhole, depressing the clutch, turning my hand, bringing the sleeping beast, my Rocinante, to life.
Shivers. I quickly turn the defroster all the way up, frigid air coursing from the dash, assaulting the front windscreen and pouring back into my face. It takes the CD player a moment to cue up the disc, but finally the sonorous sounds of the JC Ronikal disc I burned the other day begin to fill the frozen car with waves of sound.
I slam my hand down on the rear defrost button, flooring the gas just a moment, again, wait, again, wait, again, to warm the catatonic engine up. Finally the sub-zero air begins to flow with life, as the stereo blasts forth the refrain, “Everything happens for a reason . . .” I wonder whose voice that is.
The back windscreen is quickly thawing out, rivulets of icy water running down in thin lines between the remaining straits of ice. The frostkisses covering the front begin to sublime, skipping liquid entirely, escaping into the atmosphere, waiting for the chance to encounter Rocinante again.
I look out the windscreen, searching for the trees in the distance. Each is wreathed with a thick circle of leaves. Finally having shaken free their last, dying leaves, they stand tall, naked, obstinate in the face of the impending storm. The oak remains stately, even minus his powerful, imposing covering, stripped down to the barest of bones.
