Wheels Forever Turnin'
by Odin Roark

It's not just gas, Gladys. Damn it.
I know gas and this ain't gas.

Look at that stomach. It's gas.

Am I spent like a worn car,
my transmission filled with nothing but fragments of old gears,
sludge gunkin' up my forward momentum,
leavin' me sittin' on this bed like an idling clunker
wanting only to shut down, huh?

You're rambling again, dear.

Or have my wheels slowed down,
stopped turnin' ‘cause there's nowhere else to go,
nothing else to see?

You have the remote, dear.

If the engine still sparks,
if the rest of the body is lubricated,
if all that's missing is someplace to go,
shouldn't I be kickin' my own ass,
worrying less about if I have enough life insurance
and...and just plain goin' for it,
like we used to do?
Remember those days, Gladys?
Remember that first day with the tin cans attached to the bumper?

Yes dear. And they were good days, but Lucy reruns start at ten.

Reruns, schlemielruns! Did you shut the garage door?

Of course. Why?

You didn't lock it, did you?
You always forget to lock it.

I locked it. You're always on me, so...
I locked the damn thing.
Why so concerned all of a sudden?

In case we want to...
you know, go for it...
later. Rev the engine.
Go somewhere. See somethin'.

You're sweet, but that's the gas talking, Leo.
It's already later. The old six-pack belly is long gone, sweetheart.
C’mon now. Love you. Drink your Ovaltine,
turn up the volume.

Leo stares at the ceiling,
his own brand of forever runnin’ repeats,
kaleidoscopically parading up there,
like every night.

In the distance,
the roar of the old Cutlass convertible
his ’68 Olds classic
covered in the garage,
still faithfully humming his nightly lullaby.

A smile and sleep
was not far away now.
Just down the road a bit.