by D Carlson
An 80 year old police car is found in a field.
|I woke to a stomping through the tall, dry grass and weeds. Then I heard. . .voices? Lots of voices. I tried to see, but my headlamps had fogged over long ago.
“Wow, Dad, check out this police car. Do you know what it is?”
“This, my dear girl, is a Plymouth DeLuxe. Early thirties. Why don’t you look up the VIN?”
“1933, last registered to Salt Lake City PD.”
Those were good years. My cop buddies and I chasing the bad guys, sirens screaming, and guns barking.
Tommy guns. That bank heist. I remembered hearing about Albert Bates getting out of prison and making his way to Texas. He and some friends knocked over a bank in Nevada, and figured on stopping here for another gig.
Nobody ever accused Bates of being bright. We got a call from Nevada State Police almost ten hours before they reached Salt Lake City. We watched the gang go into the bank, and got into position.
The robbers left the building, saw my buddies and me, and started shooting.
The Man rubbed his hand over my hood, and patted me. My sergeant used to do that every morning. “Amy, could you back the truck down here? I think you found a winner.” Another pat. “Let’s get you home, old man. In a month you’ll feel like your old self. Well, maybe a month and a half.”
A loud truck pulled up behind me, and the Man and his daughter hooked up the chains. The girl said, “It’s gonna be a big job.”
“Yes, it is, but think of the looks when you drive it to the car show this year.”
“You found it, you work on it. You drive it.”
The truck started the winch, and the chains jerked taut. “I’m sorry about that, sir.” The wrecker sounded young. “I’ll try to be more gentle, but your wheels are sunk to the axles.”
“That’s alright, son, I’m just happy to be getting out of here. Say, how long have I been sleeping?”
“Well, the year is 2017, so you’ve been out for about eighty years.”
“Wow. I can’t wait until my vision comes back.”
“It will, sir. These humans are the best. Now you just relax, and I’ll have you at the shop in a jiffy.
I closed my eyes, and let myself be lulled to sleep by the familiar sounds of traffic.
The next six weeks were a blur, but the wrecker was right. My Girl gave me new paint; a real police decal; new everything. She even kept the bullet holes!
The girl didn’t drive me to the car show the first day, though. She found that the grandson of my sergeant was also a policeman, so she gave him the honor.
I got to meet some young police cars, all clamoring for juicy stories.
It felt good. I really felt like my old self. Dang it! My headlamps are getting misty.