That Car

It’s just a car.
Isn’t it?
It doesn’t act like anything else.
It doesn’t talk, or make its own decisions about whether or where it wants to go, or seem to be in control of its own narrative at all.   Other than the mysterious lights and the music, it’s just a car, and Tom O’Row is just a very, very, lost ‘Nodian.   We think.   “I remember the day Mr. O’Row and That Car showed up at my service station,” says Ziebarr Ratchunk, proprietor of Ziebarr’s Hot Home Cookin’ & Lube Shoppe. “He wanted directions, as do most newcomers who wind up at my place. I gave him a complimentary map of the planes, and showed him how to work the specialty pump I just had put in the last week. It’s imported and all, with a new blend of fuel that’s supposed to satisfy any sort of vehicle from any sort of place. The man thanked me kindly, pre-paid for ten gallons, and I figured that was about the end of it. But then That Car, well, it just started to glow and shine and I still swear I could hear ever-so-faintly some very pretty singing, like as if a whole angelic host was determined to out-holler that jake-breaking shit-for-brains—ope, pardon my language, ma’am—out there at the intersection. How’s he doing, anyway? Tom, I mean. Not the shit-for-brains...ope.”   That Car, the name by which Tom O’Row’s vehicle has come to be known around the Gri’x, is a mint green 1971 Ford Thunderbird. It has a bit of rust on the wheel wells, the muffler could stand some attention, and if it’s been driven more than a couple of hours, it tends to emit an aroma of hot engine oil. But it’s still shining with that greenish-gold glow, and those nearby can still hear faint music coming from deep within the machinery.   Mr. O’Row claims that it “runs better than ever.”

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That Car and Tom O'Row enjoying a slalom competition at the Dreary Lakes Interdimensional Speedway, Tarnation County

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“I still have no idea how I got here, or how I’m going to get back home to Illinois,” he told this reporter over coffee. “I figured I was just dreaming, at first, but this has gone on a lot longer than any of my usual dreams, so maybe...” he shrugs. “Apparently I have to find some specific kind of inter-dimensional portal that goes back to where I started.” He sips his coffee, gazing bemusedly at a gaggle of DownTown street urchins playing around the curb against which That Car is parked.   “It’s not as if I have a lot to go back to,” he continues, as children dash in and out of the light beams, chanting an old sing-song game. That Car almost seems to be playing along with them, as the light shines first on one, then another, and the music has tuned itself to harmonize with their song. “And I haven’t had to fill the tank up again since that first day at Ziebarr’s, so I figure I can just keep looking a while longer. Or maybe...well, I haven't decided.”   Does That Car have an actual name?   “Gosh, I never thought about it before,” O’Row says, his brow furrowing. “It was just an old beater I got from my Uncle Randy, when he and his family got back from their vacation up in Hemming Ridge. I didn’t expect it to last more than a couple of winters. I suppose it deserves a name by now, huh? Everyone calls it That Car, I know, but...I call it My Car.”   When asked to tell us more about his life in the ‘Node, he smiles, looks down shyly. “It’s boring,” he says, waving the topic away. “Nothing to tell, really.” He pauses again before continuing with a previous thought. “I’ve been thinking, actually, maybe I might just find a place, a nice place with a covered garage, and try to put down some roots here. The Gri'x is growing on me. I don’t know what the future has in store, but I know what I’ll be driving when I get there.”