Rust. From the abandoned ships on the Marina to my little coupe, rust was everywhere. After the end of the war, everything, even the people, seemed to grind to a halt and nobody knew how to get the wheels turning again. But I did. I kept willing the thing along down Lombard on my way to the Marina. I loved the little grenade on wheels. With all its rust, creaking doors and bumpy ride...it made me feel alive in a time when people couldn't figure out what to do with themselves. I knew that this little relic on wheels would keep ticking like a finely-crafted Swiss.
My little rusted coupe sputtered down the boulevard. I got it from a shady little old man who looked like he couldn't even see over the steering wheel. He told me he had no use for it. I knew, though, that the real reason was he didn't want to be killed by it. He was practically giving it away, and frankly, I could see why. I thought it would be the end of me at one point when the bloody thing seemed to cough, sneeze and choke as the rusted parts almost creaked to a stop while turning onto Lombard. Getting looks left and right for the sheer hilarity of this little red deathtrap, I willed it on down the twistiest street in the city.
That street...it was a killer. Go too fast, you missed the turn and paid an unwelcome visit to one of those rich pricks that live on that street. Rich pricks, they were. Looking outside windows, giving drivers dirty looks for disturbing the deathly silence of their lavish bunkers, they had no names. Go too slow, and those same people poked their heads out their windows and yelled at you for blocking traffic. They couldn't make up their minds. I just kept going.
I finally got there. It was a battle, Normandy. The loud pangs and other indescribable noises coming from the car rivaled those of a rifle mowing down the enemy on the front lines. I hopped out and planted myself in a little nook. Some fat, jolly black man was stroking his sax playing a melody that I'd never heard. Those crazy blacks, nobody played the sax like they did. It's like they were having a romantic affair with the damn thing every time they put their lips to it. He was drunk...he had to be drunk to play that sax. I ordered a double of rye and sipped on it as the fat black man kept playing. Then the rest of the band chimed in. It was unlike any band I had ever seen, all fat, happy, and drunk. In a difficult time like this, you either drank and pushed on, or you stopped moving.
The rye went down smooth. A day like this asked for a stiff drink. My hands were itching to write. I pulled out my pad and jotted down some words. Words...a writer's goldmine. The fat, black saxophone player was really somethin'. “I'll probably write something about him later,” I thought. Things were looking up, finally. I had my rusty ol' coupe, my words, my pen and my tiny apartment. I needed nothing else. Before I knew it, I had my first page and I knew this was going to be a hit. The sax player was really something...with his fat pouting lips, the crowd really loved him. I guess he wasn't rusty like the rest of San Francisco...he had it all figured out. Play the sax, flash that fat smile, and drink. That was his calling. Mine was my little rusty coupe, with its sun-baked paint and broken everything. I loved it, I couldn't figure out why.
Ilya Faynshteyn
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