It was a muggy July evening in downtown Red Bank, New Jersey. The sun threw up rays of fire from the smoky clouded heavens, which made even the sidewalks and the grave stone buildings on Broad Street sweat with discomfort. The tourist scattered for shade from the sun like ants burning alive from a bored child testing their magnifying glass. And as the church bells screamed five o’clock down the grey sidewalks, the cars of rush hour slowly began to congest the black asphalt streets like marching soldiers ready to charge their opposition. The cars were all filled with businessmen that wore white collars. Driving their Mercedes and Porsches, their neck ties blew like flags in the distant memory of the wind. And while the machinery passed by, there was an “eye sore” amongst the parade of luxury cars.
It was a 1994 Saturn with a “sexy” maroon paint job that was evidently peeling off. The car was missing a door handle, the windshield had a crack in the center, and the muffler had a rusty, antique shade. This car did not look like a bat that “flew” out of hell, but instead “limped” out of hell. The driver of this “rust bucket” was a middle-aged man named Steven. Steven was a gentle man in this hostile world. He had midnight blue eyes, a scruffy uneven beard, dirty blond hair, sailor tattoos, a white t-shirt, ripped denim jeans, and black van shoes.
While the erratic traffic light brought Steven to a halt, two black Mercedes stopped at both sides of the shitty Saturn. Steven took a second to look at his temporary passers-bys. He noticed that both of them had beautiful gold interiors, flat screen televisions located in their dashboards, and comfortable leather seats. Both men were smoking cigars the size of hot dogs, while the sound of their mufflers cried out like machine guns. Once Steven saw this, he began to smile brighter than light itself whispering “The gold my soul bleeds is on the inside.”
For all he had in the car was a beautiful ,violet petal of a Canterbury Bell, which hung down his rear-view mirror, and a photograph of a woman with her baby girl, which was located at the center of his dashboard. The woman in the picture was a living piece of poetry. She had cappuccino hair, hazel nut eyes, ivory skin, and a slim figure that burned your senses when she walked by. She was wearing a blue summer dress with clouds floating on it, while her wavy hair came down to her bosom. The two year old baby girl she was holding hands with was wearing a violet dress that said “Daddy’s Baby Girl”. She had her mother’s hair color that began to grow, which fell down like a willow tree bough.
And as the perfume of the purple Canterbury Bell petal blanketed the constant smell of machinery that buzzed outside, an epiphany took place. Right before the light turned green, Steven looked at the picture on his dash board, and read the four letters that were on the bottom of the photograph. “Home” the four letters read. The man smiled; the light turned green, and then he was gone.