Starter. Alternator, battery, catalytic converter. All-weather floor mats. Silver sunshade. Headrests—Tal says the stains’ll clean up with some FreedomWipe & elbow grease. We’re not afraid of a little hard work! Top-trim audio, with twelve German-made speakers & a 400-watt amp. No one makes speakers like the Germans. Gym bag. Workout clothes, still damp.  

Out-of-state plates. Loose change, heavy on the pennies, like this lady didn’t get the memo they’re worthless. Phone, five models old. Charging cables. Small gift-wrapped box. Glass digging into our palms, knees, scalps. Band-aids. Scissor jack, lug wrench, donut spare. Dashboard saint. Rhythm of the turn signal, still tick-ticking.  

Bottle of perfume—name’s in cursive, but maybe it’s Advantage? KK says it’s high-end, sprays it on all of us. We smell like sexy sperm whales. Nail clippers. Emery boards. Messenger bag, brown leather, inside of which: a literal shit-ream of paper. Never seen so much paper in one place. Lady, you ever hear of the Cloud? New-leather smell. Which saint? Who knows? Bearded, squinty—looks like a goddamn pirate, you ask us. Purse. Zippy wallet. Weirdly heavy credit cards. Cashmoneyamerican. Silver bracelet. Dog leash.  

Advantage.  

Airbags (passenger, undeployed)—Rickie’s Uncle Chop will pay a Jackson for each. Used to be a U.S. Grant but times are tough. Driver’s bag is blown so fuck it. Owner’s manual. Tire gauge. The Poe Omnibus. Omnibus? Scented candle from the gift box: “Clary Sage & Oud.” Rust-colored stains on our cuffs, sleeves, knees, wherever we brush up inside. Questions, like: will that come out in the wash? &: aren’t windshields supposed to not explode into little glass nuggets + sparkledust? &: the fuck is Oud? &: will someone turn off that goddamn turn signal already?  

Hood ornament. Tal says it’s his on account of he picked the rock & did the literal heavy lifting. We abide. Ibuprofen. Eyeliner. Eyedrops. Teeth.  

Xmas in June! Five gold-ish rings, four factory rims, three bank pens, two EPT kits, & a ass-ton of glass in our clothes—which’ll keep slicing us up until we strip down to burn them in the dumpster out back of Patriot Auto. Celebrity hand cream. Funky smells—gas metal, wires, body — in our sinuses. Axel is still mulling the nature of Oud, but it’s like, focus, motherfucker, some things are just mysteries.

Pause.  

& then a moment of awe & wonder when a miracle gust of summer wind scatters all those white pages & they flutter & twirl all pretty & yonder-wampus through the sparkedust sky & away into the dark. A funny sound comes out of one of us. Maybe me?

It’s the little things. 

& then the turn signal is in our heads again, ticking & ticking, & did we not fucking shut that thing off already?

Shopping bags: canvas, plastic, Etsy-woven. Wet wipes. Lumbar chusion. Dog, who’s so fucked-up broken we only have him for a few breaths. (which is maybe when/why we lose Rickie?) (Vague/inchoate lesson re: fragility of lives of others.) Travel mug from Chuggy’s & cold shitty light-roast inside. Road flares in case of emergency. Delta-9 gummies, blood-orange. A brain-spikey smell, like acetone swirled with fluorescent light. From what, don’t know don’t care. Swimming heads.

Lessons! Lessons about how this is a land of opportunity, even at 3AM on a dark county road. About how pirate saints & Swedish steel are no match for granite & gravity. About how He who has the big-ass rock & good aim gets the hood ornament. About how our parents are right when they say: you either get with today’s incipient neo-Nietzschean rebalancing of sociopolitical prerogatives or you get crushed. Lessons about acceleration, momentum, force, power, survival, fitness, sparkledust, Oud, & the Omnibus of it all. 

Readers with clear lenses. Readers with tinted lenses. Sunglasses with mirror lenses. So much glass! The way the mica in Tal’s rock glitters in our phonelight. A blood-thrum rush when we imagine how hard the bass on those German speakers will punch the shit out of the night while we dance & whoop & burn clothes & celebrate hard work & its rewards. Tin of breath mints. The fucking turn signal! Somehow and still! Views of our flickery firelight selves in the sunglasses on KK’s face. But no, not the lady. Brooke argues, but A, that’s a lot of dead fuckin weight, & B, none of us believe her mom knows a real life dark web guy who’ll pay for fresh. So: pass.

Even now Brooke’s still bitching about the fortune we left behind.