I wrote a story about some annonymous culture clash. You know, the old-fashioned dude meets the modernist? I call it,

The Car

I drive long distances sometimes. It’s my job. I’ve been to Arizona, even. Been a lot of places. Lots of kilometres.

I inherited this car from my father about thirty years ago. A lot of people drive new Fords and look at me like I’m driving a T. But it still works — I’ve gone to Arizona with this thing. This is what I tell them, but they never listen. They get in their Fords and drive off shaking their collective heads. Mess up expensive hairdos. I usually shrug it off and keep driving.

But the other day I saw the oddest thing. I was in upstate New York, one one of those rare country roads that seem to never end, and seem to be populated less by fueling stations and more by livestock. That’s pretty normal, at least in Montana. But there in New York I was driving along happily when I saw a car on the side of the road, obviously in trouble. One the front tyres was missing, the axle up on blocks.

I stopped, because that’s what I do. I help people. It’s my job. When I walked up to that slightly dusty late-model, however, I noticed only one occupant, asleep at the steering wheel. Knocking on the window, I saw him stir, just a bit. Then a bit harder. And a bit harder yet. He woke with a start and stared up at me, not a bit annoyed.

He rolled down the window. “What do you want?” he snapped. “Can’t you see I was sleeping?”

I was taken aback for a second. Normally people are happy to see other people. Form some sort of absurd community in the middle of nowhere. “Do you need help?” I asked. Politely. People like polite people.

“Why would I need help?” He seemed incredulous, like I had just offered to sell him an extra kidney.

I pointed to the front wheel. “I noticed that you’re missing a tyre.”

“It’s not missing,” he grunted, frowning. “That’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

“How do you drive a car when it’s up on blocks?” It seemed like a perfectly normal question to me.

He stopped grunting and started growling. “Says who? This thing runs fine.”

“Maybe it does,” I said, deciding suddenly that this man was either a nutcase or on some serious drugs, “but cars are meant to drive, and this one’s missing a tyre, and you can’t drive without a tyre.”

“You sound like one of those stupid mechanics.” He opened the door and stood up a bit rustily, looking at the axle up on blocks. “I’m telling you, that’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

“Your car is supposed to be up on blocks.”

“Yes!” He pointed at it. “Is there something missing here that you can’t see this is the way it is?”

“Then why do you have car?” I asked. “Why not just build a shack?”

“You still think you’re a mechanic.”

“I don’t think I’m a mechanic, but I do know a thing or two about cars,” I told him.

“Look, I don’t need your help,” he replied, suddenly. “I don’t need your help getting this thing running.” As if he had he decided right then that, yes, there was a problem after all.

“You’ve got tools and a tyre?” I asked, still trying. Nutcases are not safe on the side of the road. They become hitch-hikers and serial killers.

“I said I can fix it!” he shouted at me, leaning into the car, rummaging around in the glove compartment. He came up with a clear bag of a white powder (and I thought to myself, definitely drugs). “See this?”

“Yeah.” I eyeballed the bag. Not drugs. Probably coarse sugar. “Is that sugar?”

“Sure is!” he said, suddenly happy, grinning like an idiot. “And this is going to fix this car.” He unscrewed the gas cap and began pouring the stuff in before I could stop him.

“Don’t pour sugar into your gas tank!” I shouted.

The bag of sugar fell to the ground, and I found myself facing the muzzle of a revolver, a very old-looking revolver. “It’s my damn car!” he screamed, spitting. “Don’t tell me what to do with it!”

And so I watched as he poured the rest of the sugar into his gastank, watched as he sat back in the driver’s seat, watched as he turned the key. It turned over weakly a few times, and sputtered to life. And, in a cloud of blue smoke, died.

“See?” he pointed proudly at the dashboard. “Works like a charm!”

I didn’t want to tell him that he hadn’t fixed the problem at all. Or that he’d created a worse one. I didn’t want to talk to a gun-wielding madman. No, I’d much rather leave.

And so I did. I tried to help, I really did. It’s my job. Can’t help it if people won’t let me do my job. After all, my godfather wrote the manual for that car. He’s the one that told me cars go places, and not to put sugar in the tank. He told me about the guys that invented the car.

I looked in my rearview mirror as I left, watching that nameless modern shoot out the other three tyres. He probably didn’t believe that people actually invented cars anyways.

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