Thursday, March 17, 2016

A Story From the Life of Charlotte T. Ghostwritten by Joanna N.

Photo courtesy of Charlotte T.
A Story From the Life of Charlotte T.
Ghostwritten by Joanna N.

And Checking It Twice

The girls and I stepped outside to wave goodbye, but Bob and Stanley had already driven away. And then we noticed what they had left behind. It stood there. Beckoning us, drawing us to it even though we barely knew a thing about it.

It was Bob’s car, I knew that. An oddity almost. Every car I knew was painted black, but this one was dark blue. My knowledge of it ended just about there. Anything beyond that was just an assumption. I didn’t know how to drive it, and neither did they. Out of Milly, Martha, Mabel, and I, not one of us had a driver’s license or any experience with a car. But that didn’t stop us. We didn’t care.

Our garage was small, and it only seemed smaller when Martha, Martha’s friend Mabel, Milly, and Milly’s husband Bob came to visit. My husband Stanley and I had built the garage for somewhere to stay until the house was complete; it wasn’t very big since the two of us were the only ones living in it. Which also meant we didn’t have very much furniture in the cabin. A single bed just barely big enough for the both of us, a kerosene heater that the summer heat made useless, and a few other essentials.

But when several more people came to visit us? With just one little room to live in, it was like we were going to hang hammocks from the ceiling so everyone could have a place to sleep. In an attempt to escape the suffocatingly crowded room, Stanley and Bob decided that they had to go on a trip.

Stanley seemed to always be buying more posts and wood for our business of selling Cedar posts, and he certainly wasn’t stopping now. As Stan passed by me to go out the door, he answered the question I hadn’t yet asked, “I’ve run out of places to contact around Alpena. Well, they just have so much of it in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. We’re going up there to get some more posts.”

Stan and Bob weren’t the only ones looking for an excuse to leave the garage. Martha nudged me in the side with her elbow and looked between me and Bob’s car, “What the heck? It can’t be that hard.”

Before I could even think of how to respond, Milly agreed with her, “What are we going to do in this small garage anyways? There’s a show downtown that we could go to, but we’d need to drive there.” She winked at me and climbed in the car, with the others trailing behind.

Martha ended up driving, which I should’ve known only meant trouble. She had to park someplace that you could drive up to and leave your car without having to worry about it getting stolen or broken into. So she parked it over by the Buick garage that towered over our heads with cold, cement walls. Or more accurately, she attempted to park the car. It was good for a first try, I’ll give her that.

We just got right out of the car and walked the two blocks to the theater. We watched the entire show without even realizing what Martha had done. What she hadn’t done. She had failed to remember to put the car in park and take the key out.

Even though the theater was two blocks away, when we stepped out of the theater, I could still see the golden headlights radiating from our car like a lighthouse in the middle of the night. Martha took one look and instantly paled,  “Now what are we going to do? The it’s not going to start.”

When we got over to the car, it was clear we had no idea what we were doing. We never checked for any actual problem and instead just assumed that the car wouldn’t be able to start.

At a loss for what to do, Martha got behind the wheel. Again. Yet another mistake. Then Milly, Mabel, and I went around to the back and started to push the car back home. We were able to push the car for a bit, despite wearing dresses that fell past our knees and heels that could break ankles with a single misstep. I will admit, the distance we had pushed the car wasn’t all that far. Not even an entire block.

In the middle of our pushing, I heard the soft sound of tires slowing moving against the pavement. The sound gradually became louder and louder. Drawing closer still, I finally realized who it was. A cop had pulled up next to us and from his uniform, I could tell he was the chief of police.

He raised an eyebrow as he looked at our odd predicament, “What’s going on here girls?”

Martha poked her head out the window and said, “The car won’t start. We forgot and left the lights on, and went to the show.”

“That’s okay. I’ll give you a push,” the cop chuckled. “So what are your names, ladies?”

In a silent agreement, I spoke first out of the four of us, “I’m Stanley Smigelski’s wi-”

“Wait, you’re Stan’s wife? Oh of course I’ll help you guys get home. Anything for my man Stan,” He interrupted and promptly got of his car to help us.

We pushed the car all the way to Main street, through 2nd Avenue, then down 9th, until finally the cop stopped and said, “You know, it’s funny that one. Usually you just push a little and the battery will recharge itself and it will go.” He walked around front and peered through the driver’s window, “You sure you got that key on?”

“Sure, you see?” Martha confidently turned the key, expecting it to do nothing. Instead the car engine happily roared to life, almost like the car was eagerly waiting to contradict Martha and prove that it’s battery hadn’t died. To prove us and our assumptions wrong. With only about half a block to go till we were home, the cop shook his head and turned around, going back to his cruiser. Mabel had started to wave goodbye, but I forced her hand down. The cop had already walked away.