Raven
Kyler James
OK. There’s something that you need to understand right away, before I go any further. We cars and trucks and vehicles have a certain ethic amongst ourselves. We call it Proper Vehicular Behavior or PVB. In our world, it is considered the greatest breach of etiquette to go against these principles of integrity. And first and foremost on the list is loyalty to one’s master, one’s owner, or, as set forth in the official Manual of Ethics, one’s driver.
It is my duty to explain these principles to you before I go any further with my story, so that you will understand the outrage I felt toward that…monster…the night of the full moon in Viagra’s driveway. At first I thought it would be pleasant to have a nice visit with a vehicle from another class, a class that most of my fellow sports cars look down upon. But I’m not that way. I have received from my master, Micky, the highest regard for all classes of people, animals, and vehicles.
But now I understand why this elitism prevails among my peers, as I experienced first-hand the vulgarity of the lower vehicles.
At first I thought it amusing to be conversing with this sort of uneducated, highway type; and I was more than willing to learn from the experience—and perhaps, to even have a few laughs. But apparently, they do not teach these vehicles any sort of proper manners or appropriate behavior for conversing with members of a higher class.
I didn’t mind so much that this red, vulgar monstrosity was trying to make the moves on me; I rather expected this and found it quite touching actually. But when she tried to reveal—and get me to actually see—the contents of what was hidden inside her derrière, I had to firmly bring the conversation to a halt. You see, this is just not done. I was profoundly appalled. First and foremost, we are loyal to our masters—and never, without exception, do we ever reveal the private contents of our masters’ belongings in any part of our vehicles: front seat, glove compartment, back seat or trunk. It is considered the highest breach of loyalty and etiquette.
Do you think I would ever reveal to another vehicle the contents of my trunk? I would rather have my carburetor replaced (and believe me, it is a very painful procedure) than tell any other vehicle such a thing. But this is just what the truck was trying to do, perhaps as a ploy to cozy up to me.
I had to say, “Stop it! Stop it! I’m going to put wax in my gears! I’m not interested in what lies inside your long behind—so stop telling me how important it is.”
We spent the rest of our visit in silence; and every time she made another attempt, I just ignored it. Thank the God of Junkyards that she never actually revealed it. I would have been mortified, just mortified. This is how I was brought up.
Now the reason why I’m telling you this is because, after such a beautiful drive with my master Micky, whom I love and respect and adore, we pulled into this parking lot type of place—and who should be there but this vulgar monstrosity whose name I will never repeat to you. And it was my cruel fate that night—in fact, two nights in a row—to have to sit next to her again and bear her improprieties and lack of education.
I decided that the best way to deal with the situation was with total silence, which is just what I did. Not a word to that mongrel.
Instead, I focused my attention on the two men standing between us, Micky and the driver of the cretin, who seemed like a perfect gentleman to me. Let me explain to you how our car-senses work, as you probably have no knowledge of them. We can see everything in front of us, but we cannot hear it; and conversely, we can hear everything that goes on inside us, but we cannot see it.
So at first I observed Micky approaching the gentleman man, a very handsome fellow indeed, and just the sort I’d had in mind for my master, after he finally dropped that whore of a girl he’d been seeing. I simply refused to drive her anywhere; I simply refused. She was extremely vulgar too; a human version of our brazen friend over there.
By the way, do you prefer hearing this account in the past or the present? We vehicles are very versatile with such things, as we can’t quite comprehend the concept of tense; and past, present and future are all one to us. But I believe I’ve heard it said that humans need to be there in the moment or some such hogwash, so let me tell you this account as if you were actually there and watching it through my headlights.
Micky, with his adorable curly hair, is going over and shaking hands with the handsome man. They’re looking very serious. The handsome man doesn’t look happy at all. He almost looks like he could start a fight with Micky. But Micky is doing a lot of talking; he seems to be explaining something. The handsome man is listening. And now what’s happening is very strange: it almost looks like the handsome man is ready to punch Micky; but instead he starts to cry. It’s a very tender sight, this sturdy, strong man starting to cry. He quickly stops himself, though, and reaches for his red handkerchief in his back, left pocket.
Right now they don’t seem to be saying anything, and Micky is gently patting him on the back. They’re coming toward me. I’m ready. They’re coming my way. I think they’re coming inside. I’m very glad. I would very much like to offer a seat or a ride to this man. And I would love for us all to drive away and leave that vulgar vehicle alone by itself.
The doors are opening and now I can hear:
“Have a seat. Here, I’ll put on some music. What do you like?”
“All sorts of stuff, thanks. But I really don’t need music now. I’m just trying to get together what you told me. It’s a little bit of a shock.”
“Well, I thought it was important that you knew.”
“Yeah, I guess I’m glad that you told me. I don’t really know what to do about it, though.”
“Think it through and make the right decision. I just thought you should be informed.”
“Well, thanks, I’m a little blown away.”
“It’s OK. That’s perfectly natural. Would you like a beer? I’ve got some in my cooler here.”
“Sure, that’d be great.”
Micky is getting the beer and turns on my radio.
“Here you are, sir. Something seems to be wrong with my radio. I’ve put on the rock station but can only get classical. Hope that’s all right.”
I have been manipulating the circuitry of my radio, which I’ll tell you more about later. I want to set a certain kind of mood.
“Oh, fine, I like classical,” says the man.
“Do you? Well, do you know what this is? I can’t believe they’re playing this.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“Really?”
“Not sure.”
“It’s a work by Menotti about the Children’s Crusades. I know it because I sang in the children’s chorus when I was a boy—I got to be in it once. It was one of the highlights of my childhood.”
“Sounds like a great experience.”
“Oh, it was. And when I hear it as an adult, I realize how deep it is. But it’s very obscure; they hardly ever play it. It’s very sad too, about a bishop who gave the children permission to go on the Crusade—and then they all drowned. But he still hears their voices. I cry every time I hear it.”
“I guess we both cry, then.”
“Yeah, but I’m never ashamed of my tears. I’m never ashamed of anything I choose to do.”
Micky sounds really intense when he says this. And now there is a long silence. I think I can hear the sound of someone’s hand sliding across someone’s clothes. It’s a nice, massaging kind of sound.
The handsome man says, “Ahhhh.”
And Micky says, “Yeah, you just need to relax.”
And I hear the sound of a zipper being unzipped…and the handsome man says a longer “Ahhhhhh.” I love it when people feel good together on my seats.
The handsome man is starting to breathe harder…and now he’s starting to moan; but I know from past experience with Micky that it’s a good kind of moaning—not a painful kind at all. And now he says, “Oh, man, oh, man”—and he’s yelling a little, nice yelling—loud….
Everything has gotten very quiet suddenly.
Finally, Micky says, “Thank you, sir.”
And the man says, “No, thank you, sir!”
And now they’re laughing together.
After a few moments, Micky asks, “Who are you, Dave? The man who comes out of the sky to save our souls?” So that’s his name, Dave. A good name.
“Who am I?” he laughs. “I’m just a guy who likes to make people feel good. If I can make someone feel good, if I can make someone happy, then I’m happy.”
“What a philosophy!”
“Yeah, well, it’s a philosophy that works pretty good for me.”
“Oh, it works pretty good for me, too,” says my master. I can tell he is smiling.
“Listen,” says Dave, “I’ve been driving all day and I need to get some shut-eye. Next time I’m up your way, I’ll give you a buzz.”
“That’d be great; I’ll look forward to that.”
And they open my doors and get out. They’re shaking hands in a very macho, masculine way…and now Micky is coming back inside and starting me up.
“Raven!” he shouts. “Let’s go home, boy!”
And he presses my pedal down real hard and strong all the way back on Route 99.
* * *
The first light is starting to rise out of the east as I sit in our driveway, awaiting the new day. I’m preparing a special treat for my master when he wakes up. I’ve only done it a few times, but I know he loves it. It’s a chance for us to communicate together. They never put a clock inside me, but luckily a tiny computer chip fell in when I was on the assembly line, which enables me to show the time when I so desire. And I’m making the radio say 2:38, the time when the high peak of happiness between Micky and Dave seemed to occur.
I hope that when Micky sees 2:38, he’ll remember that time of great joy, because I love Micky and want him to be happy. I know that too often he has a troubled soul. And I care for him in the deepest way a car can care for his master. OK, 2:38 it is. Done.
It’s getting brighter now; and the dawning sunlight is making a nice reflection on my shiny, black hood. As the sun comes up and I wait here in the driveway for my master to take us on our first exciting ride of the day, I must confess, in spite of my previous antagonism, that I can’t help but wonder: What could be hidden in the back of that big red truck? What is back there that could possibly be so important?
What could it be?
I wonder.
__________
Kyler James has led an unusual life. As an actor, he studied with the great Stella Adler and played a number of little parts in major films and soaps. But Kyler is best known for his work as a psychic counselor, which he’s been doing for twenty-three years. A graduate of NYU, his stories and columns have appeared in several magazines and journals, and he is the author of a novel, The Secret of the Red Truck, which was published this year.His short story, “The Loneliest Man on Earth,” appears in the current issue of Ashé Journal. You can visit him at www.kylerjames.com.