Traffic Life : Passionate Tales and Exit Strategies
Edited by Stephan Wehner
An Anthology
 
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The Tragic Tale of Steven and His Spam Tin-Colored Fox on Wheels Stephanie Scarborough It had been many a night that Steven had salivated, ogled, and wept like a sissy over her pin-up that was tacked ever so carefully to his equally carefully spackled wall. The only flaw was that pesky, scantily-clad supermodel who was obscuring his view of the front right fender. The curvaceous (dare he say-voluptuous?) body, the tinted windows, and the gold paint that shone like a radiantly shellacked Spam tin in the sunlight. Sparing all frivolous words, it made Steve pleasantly happy. And now, after working three jobs, investing in several high-interest CDs, switching to store-brand Cheez Doodles, and borrowing twenty dollars from his friend, Jack, Steven was about to own the supreme culmination of automotive evolution. Just the mere thought of being able to caress her velvety red interior-day in and day out-at his whim made him, to be as sparing as possible with words, quite pleasantly happy. ­ 206 ­
  
Stephanie Scarborough 207 He had camped out at the dealership to ensure his punc- tuality, his hoard of money in his vintage lunch box and a plastic valve in his heart (too many darn Spamburgers). At eight A. M. Steven was banging on the front door. At 8:01, the police were dragging him off the car lot. At 9:27, Steven was back, prepared to wheel and deal or beg and grovel, which ever method worked. The dealer was friendly -disturbed by Steven's compulsive behavior and foul body odor-but friendly because he could see the large bills peek- ing out from under the lid of Steve's lunch box. Two hours and seven minutes later Steven's lunch box was consider- ably lighter and the dealer's pockets equally heavier, but more importantly, Steven was sliding into the car. And the front right fender was all he'd imagined and more. The sup- pleness of the padded steering wheel between his hands made him . . . . . . pleasantly happy. He let the velvety red seat conform to every curve and crevice of his derriere, sat back and just sighed; he had eaten ten complimentary doughnuts in the show room. Jelly filled, no less. And Steven sat there in the car, experienc- ing his own private little ecstasy, until he was urged by the dealer to drive it off the lot because it had closed over an hour ago, and everyone really wanted to go home. Drive the car? Why, sticking the key, which was the same radiant, shellacked Spam tin color as the car, in the ignition hadn't even occurred to him. Would it be too much to handle? Maybe he should have started doing this around noon. So he removed the curiously smooth key from his shirt pocket and gingerly slid it into the ignition as though he was a gourmet chef slicing into an octopus-tofu p at e that was about to be served to a mother-in-law whom he feared very much. He sighed again, and not because he had eaten ten complimentary jelly doughnuts that morning. The dealer was growing weary. Steven then was, much to the weary dealer's surprise, quite fastidious with turning the key, and the dealer joyously bade him adieu. On the road, Steven was equally fastidious with the care in which he handled his shellacked Spam tin-colored beauty.

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