Coming Together
He saw it coming a hundred yards down the street: sniffing this post, eyeing that cat, ignoring the passers-by. As the dog got closer Melvin could see what was coming - drat it! The dog closed in: Where’s your mate when you need them? though Melvin could see she was sitting in the sun across the street, oblivious to the situation, enjoying a morning coffee.
Sniff- sniff at the front tyre. This had last happened only two days ago, so there was going to be no escape, it was inevitably already suitably perfumed. Leg up, squirt – squirt. And she wonders why I have patches of rust inside my rims! as warm piss dribbled down the spokes and seeped past the nipples.
Melvin settled a little on his stand, and contemplated the situation: This would never happen on the rear of course. The chain grease would comfortably repel even the urine of a Great Dane, but then again, the dog would never have smelt the last mutt that had taken such liberties, the grunge of grease and oil would have seen to that.
The sun soon dried things out. They’d been up early this summer morning, taking in some sweet twisty, misty mountain back roads, chasing the rising sun around the hillsides before the rest of the world had stirred. But that guy with the backhoe - dragging a log out of the hedge with his machine strategically placed to completely block the narrow road - had been a bit of a shock. Fortunately Melvin was more awake than she was and ensured sufficient braking power was available to avoid calamity. Good job, as the backhoe driver was hardly awake either, and nearly reversed back into them even though they managed to pull up short. When he did look behind at the honk of the horn he was astonished at what he saw.
Melvin is happy with his new partner; she has the sympathy to note what Melvin indicates needs attention, listening to the voice of the engine instead of her iPod; has a tendency to catch the small problems before they turn into big ones – but not always. It would be nice if she could stop these mongrels pissing on my spokes. They have only been together a few years, but it has been an exciting time, something desperately needed after locked into a long, dull ménage of forty years in a shed, that previous partner jealously guarding his prize, scared to let Melvin - or himself - roam.
This time is different. Lots of adventures, and lots of TLC, but without the usual requirements to dress up with glitter, gigaws and fresh paint to make out you are something you are not. Those scratches and dings are a part of what Melvin is, where he's been, who's been seen, the roads travelled, and the dank dark garages that gnawed at the plating, whilst time dragged by waiting for the next outing that never seemed to come. It had been a good, full existence for the first twenty years: lots of miles, good partners who cared, who had the mechanical ability and sympathy to keep on top of the jobs, and even sort out most of those little niggles that the two Phils had missed originally. Then came a few pass-the-parcel types: they wanted the big Vin, but having got it, didn’t know quite what to do with it. A year or two and they cashed in their investment – usually they never even mastered the art of kicking life into the growling beast. Then the forty-year hiatus, the time of a slow-motion battle against the forces of entropy, clinging on to existence as the exhaust fell to holes and the sludge hardened in the bottom of the oil tank.
A well-intentioned potential purchaser had – when the time finally came to move on – threatened to dismantle poor Melvin into a million bits and chrome plate him into oblivion. Poor thing would have had to start all over again, finding itself a blank slate once more, and pass again through those difficult early years, to develop a whole new integrity of existence. But fate had intervened, twice: the first buyer after the forty-year night was on the right track of just a major service, but the end result would have been more years in a shed, albeit collected with many more similarly sedentary companions this time. But then he died, tragically, in a moment. Then came this tousled, shabby individual who was only concerned with putting miles on the clock in the most enjoyable way, and cared nothing for chrome plate and shiny paint; and so it came to pass that she found Melvin, or Melvin found her (who knows how the world works in these matters?) and the dance commenced of getting to know one another. Slowly at first, but with care to understand what each wanted from this new relationship. Then the shakedown phase, when one has to get through the difficult challenges of confronting each other’s individual tics and tacs; and now the stage of acceptance, where just about anything can happen; there is no way out, you’ve been together too many miles now to even think about not dealing with the obstacles, just getting on with the adventure of life together.