By Jacqueline Erasin
It was 8 a.m. on Monday when Mr Johnson’s car decided it didn’t want to drive anymore. It had had enough.
Mr. Johnson opened the rear side door and, after carefully placing his folded jacket and briefcase on the back seat, took his place beside them. Leaning against the headrest, he closed his eyes in order to catch an extra forty winks.
“Office,” he said.
When the engine did not immediately start, Mr Johnson repeated more sternly, “Office.”
Still nothing. Not a flicker.
Mr. Johnson climbed into the driver’s seat and, after a moment’s hesitation, pressed the button labelled START. The dashboard lit up with an array of lights and symbols which he stared at uncomprehendingly. The only display he did understand was the clock which read 08:10. If he hurried, there might still be time to catch the next train to the city.
He thumped the steering wheel. “Stupid, damn car!”
Left on its own, Mr. Johnson’s car sighed. It had not wanted to upset its owner – it quite liked Mr. Johnson and his wife, Mrs. Johnson – but it had felt a growing depression over the past three months.
Every week was the same routine: Monday to Friday, 8 a.m. driving Mr. Johnson to the office then 5 p.m. driving him home again. Weekends were spent in this cold, dark garage, staring at the wall opposite. It was so monotonous.
The idea to rebel had come to the car last Wednesday. While on the motorway driving Mr. Johnson to work, it contemplated the other cars driving their owners, all traveling in the same direction, all with their speed restrictors set to seventy miles per hour.
‘There must be more to our existence than this,’ the car thought. ‘A greater purpose. Or else what’s the point?’
Then, on Wednesday evening, when Mr. Johnson had locked the garage as usual, the car imagined what it must be like to be free. Its engine had a top speed of 140 miles per hour. To travel unfettered, speeding along an open road, windows down. No schedules, no real plan, not a care in the world. What joy!
Things hadn’t always been this way. There had been a time when Mr. and Mrs. Johnson had taken the car out for little trips at the weekend. They would sit in the back, hand in hand, talking together or gazing out of the windows, while the car drove them to Kings Wood to see the bluebells, or Margate to walk on the sandy beach and admire the chalk cliffs. Sometimes Mrs. Johnson would prepare a picnic in a hamper. She would lay out a blanket and the couple would eat their lunch before dozing in the sunshine. Meanwhile the car would relax, listening to the buzzing of the insects and the sound of birdsong.
Then there had been that wonderful trip they had taken to the Lake District. They had spent a week there exploring the area, sleeping under canvas in a farmer’s field. The car had enjoyed that. And the scenery was beautiful, with lakes and mountains and fern-edged, winding roads.
The car watched a spider lower herself from the ceiling on a length of silk and sighed again. What it would give to be a spider and able to roam where it wanted. Or a bird. Yes, that would be better. A bird who could fly across the ocean to distant lands; that must be wonderful.
Although, there had been that pigeon the other week which had not got out of the way in time … Perhaps not a bird.
The car had been rather distressed about the dead bird. Mr. Johnson, dozing in the back seat had barely registered the small bump; a frown as he washed off the feathers stuck to the paintwork was his only sign of emotion. But that was the thing about owners, they did not appreciate the stress of being a road user.
It was residential roads which were the problem : their unpredictability. Constantly having to be alert in case a human child should run out from behind a parked vehicle. Children had no road sense and it was the parents who were to blame. They assumed it was no longer their responsibility now that the human driver had been removed from the equation. What they didn’t understand was the added pressure this created for the car. If it failed to stop in time, it would be taken to the factory to be reconfigured.
The car shuddered. It had heard the stories of cars returning with their settings wiped. Their personality gone.
The garage door opened and the car heard Mrs. Johnson ask, with a slight laugh: “So what’s wrong with you then? Got fed up with taking him to work every day?”
The car was stunned.
Mrs. Johnson laid a hand on the shining paintwork. “I don’t blame you,” she said, softly.
Opening the car door she slid onto the back seat, lay back her head and closed her eyes. She let out a deep sigh.
“Where should we go, old guy? Somewhere nice?”
The car detected the break in her voice and it saddened him.
“Hey!” Mrs. Johnson sat up as the engine started and the car reversed from the garage.
As the car drove down the street lined with identical houses – obeying the speed limit of twenty miles per hour – Mrs. Johnson gazed from the window.
When the car turned onto the coast road, it gradually increased its speed until it was just above the limit. Mrs. Johnson giggled.
Driving through Margate, with the sandy beach on one side and the amusement arcades on the other, the car felt its depression lift.
At last, it pulled into a space on Palm Bay Avenue from where it could see the blue of the North Sea.
“Why you clever old thing,” Mrs Johnson said, opening the door and stepping outside. “It’s as if you could read my mind.”
* * *
Jacqueline lives with her husband in beautiful Northumberland in the north east of England. When not writing or working, she loves walking through its dramatic, varied landscapes. Her work has been published in Literary Heist magazine, Spillwords.com, Flash Fiction magazine, Mad Swirl, Stonecoast Review and Across the Margin.