He smelled like an old car. American. A Mercury Grand Marquis.

Or perhaps a Plymouth Valiant. I have ridden in both in more

desparate times. I am ashamed to admit that this is true.

I sometimes wonder if it is the truth to this date.

But this is not about me. I need to my own truths by saying anything.

He smelled like an old American car, once owned by a smoker,

someone who drove often, long distances. The upholstery

ground out by strange passengers, self-doubt, complacency.

The windows would seem to have never been opened,

the anger, self-depracation, held in, the years alone scarring the interior.