Chapter 5: The Lincoln

He lowered the binoculars, and his brain started working. The singular foremost thought in his head was getting a closer look. Nothing evil or sinister about wanting to see this dream a little closer, it’s not like he was going to drag her into his basement to have his way with her after all, though this thought lingered just a little bit longer in his brain than it should have. Shaking it out of his head, he went back to the task at hand. She’d be coming back in about 20 minutes or so, what excuse could he have for waiting in his yard for her return? He then noticed his car keys on the end table. The keys to his 1972 black Lincoln Continental, the one he got from his late wife as a present for their 10th anniversary. He loved that car and kept it in mint condition and it sat in his garage in almost the exact shape it was in when they first brought it home. It had been a couple of weeks since he had washed it, maybe today was a good day for that.

Quickly he rushed to the garage and gathered the necessary tools for the operation. Bucket, check. Sponge, check. Soap, check. Hose ... he remembered how much Sonya liked the hose ... check. He pressed the button on the automatic garage door and it grinded open slowly. He wished it would hurry so he could get things ready. Finally, it came to rest fully open and Bob jumped in the car, backing out of the garage slowly. He paused as the car exited the garage at the top of his driveway, but then he thought of the advantages of having it further down, closer to the sidewalk. He wanted a closer look after all, and it would be definitely closer down there. He let the Lincoln coast down the driveway until it almost blocked the sidewalk. As he exited the car, he checked his watch. Approximately ten minutes until she would be heading back this way. He dashed up to the spigot on the side of the house and got the hose turned on, pouring soap into the bucket and filling it up with the hose, spraying it to get a nice lather going. As he held the hose he realized he wasn’t wearing clothes he could wash the car in. His slacks, loafers, and dress shirt would just not do. He groaned and ran as well as his 73-year-old body could take him and dashed into the bedroom. He grabbed a white tank top T-shirt, something the kids these days called a “beater”, though he didn’t really understand why. As he unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off, he got a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His pot belly stuck out in front of him, and sagged over his belt line. He slapped his gut and joked to himself “What a body!” His hair and beard were more than 90% grey now, with the last gasps of his former hair color clinging on in only a few spots. He had thought about dying it at one point, but it had been this color for too long now, people would wonder what he was up to if he tried to color it now. The t-shirt on, he whipped a pair of Bermuda shorts out of the dresser and pulled his slacks off, then pulled the shorts up, hiking them under his belly. A belt would be required to keep them up, he didn’t need his shorts falling down right in front of her. He was about to slip some sandals on when he remembered hearing that wearing dark socks with them was frowned upon nowadays. So he pulled the socks off and slipped his wrinkled feet bare into the sandals, his pale calves exposed, covered with graying hair there as well. Well, this was as good as it was going to get he thought, and checked his watch again. 3:17, shoot, she’d be back soon, he had to get going.

Outside again, he looked down the block that he knew she’d be coming up and saw no sign of her. He started spraying the car down, getting it wet. He checked down the block again and saw nothing. What if she’d cut her run short today, and he’d missed her? What if she was already tucked away back in her house, and all this was for nothing? He sighed and slapped the sponge in the bucket, splashing soap on the grass, and he started washing the car, wiping down the hood, soaping it up generously.