My first car was a tricycle, closely followed by my third car, which was a powerful and slow motorcycle, which nearly killed me. I didn’t get my second car till I came back from my posting abroad. It was a bicycle with fast handlebars and a jaunty outlook, the colour scheme had a kind of faded charm.
Four wheels arrived with a family inside and luggage strapped down above. I loved it, even though it stuck out at strange angles and kept falling into many pieces over the roadside. The children were sick in the back and the windscreen was at the side instead of the front. My great grandmother bought it for me, third hand, at a fayre with jam stalls and lost parents vying for superiority over an ancient machine which had run out of prizes.
In between the greying tents the ropes were woven into cat’s cradles and pegged down into the hard earth with hand carved pegs whose heads had splayed under the cruel blows.
I kept the Joy that my car had provided in my filing cabinet or under my hat. The smaller children wanted to ride in the giant teacups and I couldn’t get the smell of food out of my nose. My car is mostly constructed of plastic, with hardened edges and individual markings. Mandatory belts to safeguard against turbulence, drop down oxygen masks are optional and drinks will be served, please don’t block the aisles. The exits are here and there, with a sunroof and extendable ariel to play pop songs without end, amen.
Later, I took the Joy available down the helter-skelter, to make skid marks on my arms and hooked a plastic duck with no legs. I wished the car could come with me to the fayre, but it needs to stay in the stoney car park with no lines to delineate the parking rules or regs.
When I went to work in the light or ferried the children to their economics and juggling classes. I drove with a small plastic figure of Joy on the dashboard, it moved in an amusing way, with its head and shoulders wobbling as if they were about to take flight. The dust about its feet lay thick and undisturbed.
Sometimes the car would go off on its own, taking my partner and or a child or three to far off places which I couldn’t understand clearly. Empty fields full of crops with suspicious cows and vermin or long stretches of coastline falling into the sea. The car would not let them come home until all the cushions were scattered and the picnics thrown over the side. The following seagulls scooped up the crumbs beside the pool.
I reasoned that if I could harness the Joy, wrangle it into a bottle or long life can, then the world might be in benefit and would be bumped in the right direction. But every time I thought that I had got a purchase upon its outer casing with my favourite long nose pliers, it twisted and slipped away into an inaccessible corner, or jumped aboard a passing tram and waved as it drifted off. Eventually I settled for sitting on street corners and moaning about taxes to my feet.
After two more children arrived, my car changed shape and colour, then, during a storm, became quite shiny for a short while. Coincidence? There were twenty seats and the scenery rolled endlessly past the side windows. On the corner of the street, it split in two and continued both back and forth without me. I was surprised, as I had thought that I was in control. I put all the Joy back in the glove compartment with all the other gloves and sat back to enjoy the ride.
I told the Blue Knight, no, I sent a letter to the Blue Knight suggesting car-based Joy solutions. I told him that I had left it in the glove compartment. I think that I would prefer to walk.
The Guardians of the Cave 