The Last Chevelle
“According to the App it’s about a
mile ahead.”
“I hope there’s not a long line, or
we’ll have to pull off the road to charge somewhere,” I replied. “The car batteries
are getting low.”
“I trust you’ll be able to squeeze
into the line.”
“I can’t just butt in front of people.
I’m not rude like you.”
“Maybe you should be, things might
get done a lot quicker.”
“I see the light-sign coming up in
the distance.” I pointed ahead. “Check your App again. What’s the status?”
“It says there are seven cars
connected. Hurry up, and we can get a place in line.”
I slowed the car pulling it into the
eighth place in the line, close enough to get a quick charge. Any position
after ten cars made battery charging much slower, a time-consuming burden.
“Just set it in disconnected, tow
mode and we can rest while it charges.”
“You mean I can rest,” I corrected.
“You’re not the one doing all the driving.”
“Neither are you.”
“Just because the car is self-driving
doesn’t mean I don’t still have to pay attention to what it’s doing. I must
keep an eye on all the vitals.”
“Whatever.”
The bus sized mobile charging unit
was nicknamed the THROG, short for Tesla Highway
Recharging
On the Go. Cordless car charging was the rage in 2027, but it was only a couple
of years later when on the move charging became the ultimate travel luxury.
“How long will it take for a full
charge?”
“The car has been running on a low for
a few miles now, but this is one of the new high-speed charging THROGs.”
“Isn’t it expensive to charge at
high speed?”
“It’s more expensive than the older
models, but it just bills to my account. Besides it’s well worth the added convenience.”
“You still didn’t answer my
question.”
“Maybe twenty minutes to get a full
charge from the level the batteries are presently at,” I answered, “give or
take. It sure beats the slow charging stations”
“Look, cars one and two just pulled
away.”
“Good, then we’ll get a faster
charge.”
“You remember the old days of gas
engines?”
“Nope,” I replied sarcastically.
“What are those?”
“Not even your Nineteen seventy
Chevelle?”
I closed my eyes. How could I forget
my 1970 Chevelle SS? 396 big block engine, cowl induction, Muncie M22 rock
crusher transmission. I remember driving in Richmond, down Broad Street, and
through the Fan District, an area referenced by the fan-shaped roads once home
to
Confederate monuments. The past is now gone along with my Chevelle.
I
felt a nudge, shaking me from my daydream.
“Wake up, my App says we’re
charged.”
I became alert again and assessed
the gauges. “That was fast. I thought we’d be here a while.”
“Aren’t modern technologies such a
nice luxury?”
I flipped a couple of switches, and
the car was on its way again, pulling itself back out into the stream of
traffic. The thrill of driving gone.
END
J.B.
Preston
J.B. Preston writes poetry, literary, and speculative fiction. He has a master’s degree in Library Science, and has worked as a bartender and librarian, both occupations giving him the life experiences that have helped create his works. He is published in The WestWard Quarterly. https://www.facebook.com/joe.preston.9849