Thursday, December 27, 2007
I pulled the fake fleece-lined gloves out of the glove compartment today. I remember putting them in it for the first time. The winters in Redding were so cold that a pair of gloves was critical for keeping the digits pliable in the freezing mornings. Sport (the long gone VW Golf) was under the car port at the ugly brown apartments (the tragically misnamed Hilltop Garden Apartments) when I crawled into the passenger side one sunny afternoon and slipped them in. Surprisingly, they survived the move to Flip Flop and slid, unnoticed, into the compartment of the Silver Bullet. At least one officer noticed them.
"Wow," he said, "You actually have gloves in your glove compartment." I didn't respond as I pulled out my licenseandvehicleregistration.
Sitting on the table, they look naked and vulnerable outside of the confines of the glove compartment. Like a stillborn metonymy, they stand for a car that no longer...
The writer is overtaken with emotion, please return for part 2 of this post. --ed.