Sunday Drive

by linda marie barrett


finney and uncle byron go for their weekly sunday drivew

Sunday Drive

    Sunday Drive

    @2016 Linda Barrett

    Finney put on his crash helmet which matched the blue October skies over head. He then strapped himself into his padded bullet proof vest. It was the same old Sunday ritual for him. He buckled up his knees in baseball knee guards. Binding his arms in bubble wrap, he realized he was prepared for the battle ahead. Sitting in the car's passenger side, he waited for his uncle, Byron. It was another Sunday drive, the most inane event of his 55 plus years. Every Sunday, Uncle Byron insisted he'd drive them someplace. His parents left him with their will's inane codicil that he'd take care of his Uncle Byron. Finney always prepared for the worst.

    The stooped over old Uncle Byron looked as if he might topple over in a small breeze. He jerked open the car's heavy steel door. It emitted a tortured squeak as if expecting a major tragedy ahead.

    "You ready, boy?" the old man croaked.

    Finney snapped his goggles over his eyes.

    "Ready when you are, Uncle." he intoned in numb tones to hide his terror.

    "Ah," Uncle Byron sighed, plopping into the driver's seat, "Another Sunday drive,"

    "Yes,"Finney grasped at the car's dashboard. His fingernails dug into the aged cracked green vinyl. "Are you going to put on your seat belt?" he asked Byron.

    "Don't need one " Uncle Byron swatted the air. "Only wimps and Communists wear them "

    When Uncle Byron turned on the car's ignition, the whole neighborhood shut its doors and windows. Parents hurried their children into their homes. Joggers leaped for the nearest shelter. The car's motor exuded the noise of a rocket going off. Finney cringed as

neighbors fled for their homes. One man jumped into a trash can and closed the lid. Dogs escaped, whining with their tails between their legs.

    Uncle Byron jammed the gas pedal and the ancient car sped down the lane. Finney dug his nails into the seat's upholstery.

    "LOOK OUT FOR THAT WHEELCHAIR " Finney hollered as an elderly woman froze in the middle of the road. Her eyes bulged and her false teeth dropped out as her horrified mouth opened.

    "Damned bitch " Uncle Byron hollered, his car going 55 MPH. "Stupid woman Get off the street "

    The wheelchair bound woman spun around, falling onto her side on the wide road.

    "Can't trust women drivers " Uncle Byron muttered, grasping the steering wheel.

    "Sometimes I wonder about you," Finney moaned, clenching at his heart to see if it still beat.

    Uncle Byron's car sped-o-meter read 60 MPH. The entire assisted care complex blurred out of existence as they broke all known land speed records to get onto Route 202.

    "Uncle Byron " Finney cried in a falsetto. "You're supposed to be going 35 "

    "Shut up, boy " the old man hollered. "Watch me pass that 16 wheeler "

    At 80 MPH, The car sped alongside the huge truck which made a right turn onto Commerce Lane. Finney's mouth's opened.

    "That's not what you're supposed to do " Finney screamed. "You'll get crushed "

    "Where's it say that, boy?" Uncle Byron asked.

    "Along its side The sign says....,"

    "Don't trust them liberals Them and their signs " Uncle Byron muttered.

    The semi's driver roared, honking his horn. Uncle Byron raised his middle finger. Finney struggled to get out of his seat belt. Breaking free, he pushed his body against his door.

Both car and semi collided. Finney leapt out onto the sidewalk, falling face down over the door.

    "What'd you do that for, boy?" Uncle Byron shouted, poking his head out of the car's moon roof. "Another week in the Montgomeryville Auto Body Shoppe and it'll be good as new "

    Wrenching himself out of the truck's crushed cab, the driver kicked open the door and leaped to the ground. The massive man with the battered bull dog face lumbered up to Uncle Byron.

    "Do you have your damn hearing aid on, old dude? I honked at you three times " the driver towered over Uncle Byron.

    Uncle Byron thrust out his thin little chest and raised his clenched fists.

    "I used to be in my school's boxing team, buddy " the old man shouted.

    "You gonna pay for my rig, you little shrimp " the driver roared.

    Another fist fight in which Uncle Byron never won, Finney thought in agony.

    Finney tossed off his helmet and cried to him:

    "Uncle Byron You shouldn't be driving anymore " he sobbed.

    "Jesus Christ, boy Why not? Been doin' it since 1938 " Uncle Byron wailed.

    "Don't hit my uncle " Finney cried to the trucker, "My Uncle Byron's been legally blind since 1993 " Finney screamed as the paramedics whisked him away on a stretcher.

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