By James Ross Kelly
In 1967, at eighteen, I was driving my newly restored and shiny red, 1951 Henry J. I’d worked on for three years, with it’s rebuilt “Kaiser Supersonic 6″ down Highway 62. I hit black ice, swerved off to the right, I over-corrected and went into a spin down the straight stretch of road that sat atop a ten foot road bed being built over the valley floor. The rolling dark mist was frozen translucently to the black top on every foggy February night.
It was 11pm. I’m coming back from my first real girlfriend’s middle class tract home in Medford, Oregon; now I’m spinning down the middle of the road and as the little red car from the highway launches end over end through the air towards a pasture; I am thrown to the roof. Then to the back seat, then back to the front seat; the next flip I’m in the back seat again. The final flip rotates me again to the new genuine black naugahyde front seats and as the car in mid-air arcs over, coming down to the earth upside down and just before the crash landing, the door opens and I’m thrown out—crushing the car top to the seats.
Sober, and not ever having asked for a miracle other than from my girlfriend I wanted to marry, and not knowing much about life or death; I picked myself up out of the mud and with a minor cut on my leg, I came to the wrong conclusion about what had just happened.
“My Car! My Car! My Car!” I screamed.
word count: 261
Previously published at Now These Present Ghosts