Withered

             He turned the key again, hearing the pained rur-rur of the old car attempting to turn over.  Foot on the gas, about halfway to the floor after pumping it twice…come on, this is how we used to do it, Betsy!

            She didn’t start for him.

            Dejected, Harden let go of the key, leaned back against the bench seat, and sighed.  Why don’t you just start?  This is for a good cause…Shirley needs a space a little closer!

            He slammed (lightly, so as not to break a brittle bone) his hands down on the steering wheel and paused. 

            This garage was an underground parking lot, designed for the retirement community above it (retirement community, he thought bitterly, translates to extended euthanasia), and his was a prime parking space, just to the left of the main entrance.  You’re doing the right thing, he told himself.

            Harden thought daily about when his wife died.  In some ways, he actually envied her.  In others, well, he wasn’t so sure.

            For 61 years, they had been the central focus of each other’s lives.  She had always been a homemaker, he had been retired for 19 years, and they had spent every moment together since his retirement.  The grandkids came over, they were together; doctor’s checkup, they were together; he was in the room with her when the doc said it would only be a few more months now.

            Only a few more months now.  She lasted two.  A very painful two, during which Harden huddled at her bedside, handing her the morphine pills, knowing it was better to be in that half-sleep when in that much pain.  In the end, her breathing just slowed down, as if a record player had been unplugged, until it stopped with a frightening “huph.”

            God that sound always made the hairs on his neck stand up.  And he heard it, in his head, daily.

            Harden collected himself and went through the motions again.  Pump it twice, then keep it on half-throttle, turn key.  The battery started turning the engine over, but it wouldn’t grab.  Betsy was a ’69 Chrysler, way too old of a car to have still in existence, but then again, he only drove once, twice a month, so it was fine.  Unfortunately, it just didn’t quite function anymore the way it did when he first bought it.  Nothing seemed to work right anymore.

            He reflected on that thought for a moment.  When he was in his mid-fifties, he had declared that he would kill himself before resorting to wearing a man-diaper, and here he was, with the dry comfort of a Depends between himself and the bench seat.  He wore elastic pants because his arthritic hands wouldn’t let him fiddle with a belt anymore.  His knees, the cartilage gone years ago, hardly bent anymore, especially when the rains came.  Face it, bub, you’re old, defective.

            He shook his head, pumped the pedal again, and turned the key.  “C’mon, Betsy, just once more, for Shirley.”  Harden had been given one of the “prime spaces” a few years back, “prime space” being one of the eight spaces directly in front of or to the side of the main staircase leading from the garage to the building above.  He had been given one not due to his handicapped plates (everybody there had those), but because one of the nurses had seen him limping around one day, and had made the proper arrangements to have a space given to him when the time came.  After Ralph Barley died, or as they say here, passed on, Harden was reassigned to this space.

            And now, Harden was going to give this space over to Shirley.  He could see that Shirley was no longer able to walk very far, and going up the stairs had to hurt her, bad.  But, unfortunately, Harden couldn’t guarantee anybody’s death anytime soon, so, in pity, he was giving her his spot.

            Not as if he had anywhere to go.

            It’d been four years since he’d seen any of his kids, or grandkids for that matter.  The last visit was a simple “Hi how are ya” from one of his granddaughters and her husband, nice enough kids, but nowadays, nobody gave anybody time to visit other people.  Or so they said.

            His son, who lived just eight miles away, had never come to visit.  Harden would occasionally call, leave a message on the answering machine, and wait for a response.  He knew his son had Caller ID, and wondered sometimes.

            Once upon a time, the grandkids used to love to drive with Grandpa in the Chrysler.  It once was a cool looking car, with a beefy engine and muscle car looks.  They would pile into the car and he would head out onto the highway; when they’re that young, doing 70 miles per felt like they were at the Indy Speedway.  They used to love when the family would gather together, and he would take them out….

            He was so lonely…even with 47 other tenants and a staff of 15….

            One more time, pump the gas twice, turn the key.

            When did life get so boring?

            Rur-rur-rur-rur-rur….

            What happened to life?

Rur-rur-rur-rur-RRRRUUUUURRR!!!!

The car starting had caught him completely by surprise, and he not only had the throttle still halfway floored, he’d also forgot to let go of the key, and the sickening scrape of the starter scared the hell out of him.  The whole car shook with the movement of the engine; a steady stream of smoke threading out the hood of his car from the exhaust leak, one cylinder pumping but not firing due to a bad plug.  He let it warm up for a moment, the vibration of the car like a mother, holding a baby in her arms.

The gauge read an 1/8 of a tank of gas.  Not much, but plenty to pull over to Shirley’s now empty spot (she had driven to a doctor’s appointment, and he planned to park there and wait for her to arrive, guide her into her new space).  He reached one hand to the shift lever, pulled it towards him and slid it into R.

The car hammered into reverse, the transmission no longer having the ability to ease into gear, and the entire car shifted with the impact (the motor mounts were long since worn).  Looking behind him, he slowly backed up and to the right, put it into D, and slowly inched forward.

The whole car was shimmying with the bad timing, but it didn’t matter; it was only two rows down.  He saw the oil pan he had to put underneath the Chrysler to catch all the miscellaneous drips and made a mental note that he would have to move that.  The rocking motion of the car soothed him, made him feel…made him feel…like the grandkids were there with him, sitting in the backseat again, shouting “Faster, faster!”  He felt good, felt alive again.

As he started to turn into Shirley’s spot, the oil light came on, its red light glaring out at him as a final warning.  Just ten more feet…five…two…there!

The car sputtered and stalled, the engine making a final sickening “huph” and all the warning lights came on.  Harden sat, very still for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel, withered hands holding the wheel like a lifeline, then lowered his head into them and cried.