Blog Angeline
I drive east on IL HWY 290 toward Chicago. My engine is rumbling and shaking just beyond the steering wheel. I hear it clearly if my window is down. I hope I will make it home. I am on the south side surrounded by factories and houses long left for dead by their inhabitants, or maybe the other way around. I don’t smoke; I don’t want to anger the machine, who I feel at this point is taking every one of my actions to heart. I caress the wheel, promising to do right by her, Angeline, my sweet machine, if she will do right by me and get me to my home 5 miles away.
I make my exit and feel her begin to fuss. She wants rid of me. She wants me to suffer. I turn off the music that comforts me on my drive and play the music she likes. Or rather, play the music she knows I hate: pop country. I don’t need to play it loud, she ust wants me to listen to it, she wants it understood that she is hurting and that her misery requires my company. I oblige.
A man in his early fifties, wiry and energetic in a old blue coat and thick wool hat has his hand up in the air. He holds a plastic cup and swings it from side to side. He seems overjoyed, like a man professing his wealth rather than begging for my change. He recognizes me and my car. I am there everyday and at the same time. He makes his way over. Angeline rumbles, she cries, she doesn’t care about this poor man, she simply wants to rest and won’t allow me to roll down my window to fish the thirty cents I have in my pocket for him, not now, not when the light has turned green. I am forced to say through the glass that I too am broke but perhaps tomorrow my house will come in and I will share these winnings with him when I see him tomorrow. He blesses me for even acknowledging his existence and looks forward to tomorrow.
Angeline carries me the rest of the way, or maybe I her, we’re both tired and frustrated and relying on each other for every inch of asphalt that runs down the center of Chicago’s Humbolt Park. We weave along the tree lines and coast when we can. We don’t get excited and we don’t hurry, we’re efficient and we’re careful. I pull her around the corner at Shakespeare Ave and wind her into a spot in front of my building. I put her in park and sit with her for a moment. I make sure she’s okay, that she will make it through the rest of the night without me, that she is comfortable, that she can rest in this spot I’ve chosen for her if only for the short time before I make her run the whole marathon again. Her rumbling subsides and purrs, she allows me to turn off the country, I’ve suffered with her and she’s grateful. I turn the ignition and remove the key. I grab my groceries which we had picked up on an unplanned stop earlier, one which had irritated her, and rose the steps of my building.
With my key in the lock and the door open I turn to make sure she is sleeping well. She doesn’t stir. I think she’ll be okay. I close the door and walk up the steps to my apt on the third floor. I fumble with my keys, my mind on it’s task, but my mind also somewhere else. My mind on my job. My mind on the small office I leave but return to. My mind on the rotting spinach and spoiled milk in the fridge which I replace with fresh spinach and milk which I will dispose of in the same matter 2 weeks from now.
I remove my coat and lay it on a chair. I take out a cigarette and light it near the window, near enough to view my Angeline. I wonder if she will be calm in the morning when I wake her, or if she will cry and weep. I hope she is alright.
