I don't know if anyone is paying attention out there. If you are, then this is a little something I did while trying to break through my block.

MUSCLE CAR

Chad had been my best friend growing up, and we’d had a four-month fling senior year. To my then eighteen-year-old testosterone-driven brain he was the hottest bad boy in town. The unruly, shoulder-length shaggy brown hair; brown eyes that reminded me of milk chocolate; luscious red lips; a tanned and muscular body from outdoor activities; long fingers and calloused hands. The outside body was awesome, but the internal turmoil mixed with drugs and alcohol caused him to be not so nice. However, he and I had always been friends. He always treated me with respect, kept the jerks in high school from bothering me, and made me feel special whenever we were together. He was my muscle man.

During our high school years, he kept an old, battered heap of leftover Mustang in his backyard, working on it whenever time allowed. There were many weekends when I would go over to his house and sit under a tree in his backyard, watching him playing with his toy.

Sitting up on cinder blocks was the ugliest heap of metal that he claimed was a 1964 Mustang convertible. I assumed that tattered black material, limply hanging from its frame, was the top. It’s front end had been smashed, the bumper missing, one headlight busted and the other hanging on for dear life. The body of the car was rusting where the paint had chipped away. The leather interior had seen too much sun, and the seats were tattered. He alleged that the engine was still good, but that it would need a new radiator and crank shaft, something else, and another thingy or two. It just needed a little work, he claimed.

I loved watching him work on that heap. Sweat and black grease often covered his biceps and chest, and would be streaked across his face due to wiping away sweat. My muscle man working on his muscle car.

Whenever I wanted him to stop working on the car and do something with me (not sex), I’d sit under the tree and read poetry to him. He’d put up with it for awhile, but then would take a rag and wipe his hands off before tossing the rag at me. I’d catch the rag and smile at him, asking him what he wanted to do now.

We had a disagreement after graduation, yelling vile things at one another. Although he had broken up with me earlier that year, our disagreement hadn’t been his fault. My family moved shortly afterward, but I never lost my feelings for him. It would be fifteen years before we’d see each other again, and there were a lot of surprises exposed at that reunion.

My former bad boy muscle man had cleaned up his act, eliminating both drugs and alcohol from his life. His eyes were still beautiful; his unruly hair shorter; his body more muscular. He had a new life, in a new town; being responsible for several businesses and a charity inherited from a great aunt.

While staying with him for Thanksgiving, he took me outside to the garage and told me to close my eyes. I heard the garage door opening, then felt him move my body into position. He told me to open my eyes.

Sitting inside the garage, under showroom lighting, was a baby blue 1964 Mustang convertible. He walked over to the car and leaned inside, fumbling with something on the dashboard. I watched as the top slowly folded itself up and closed itself in the space behind the back seat. Shiny blue mustang horse insignias gleamed against even shinier hubcaps. He said it had taken him over twelve years to find as many original parts as possible and to get it rebuilt.

He smiled broadly as he tossed the keys over the top and I grabbed them with my right hand. “Take me for a spin, and I’ll read poetry for you.”

I chuckled as I opened the driver’s door and sank down into a lush leather seat. I turned the key in the ignition and heard our doors shut. I moved the stick into drive and slowly pressed the gas pedal. I smoothly drove us along the dirt road leading to the highway. Once we were on the highway, he smiled at me as I pressed the pedal down. I listened as a gentle hum began while I was pushing the horses up to 60. He put a CD in the player that looked exactly like an original radio. We listened to hits from our senior year while driving down the highway with the wind in our hair.

Dare I say it was the sweetest, most beautiful car I had ever driven! My muscle man had built his muscle car.