A car named Desire.

That tan bronco, that tan bronco that sat all through the end of the summer and into the early parts of fall outside the tire store on the main stretch cutting through town. That tan bronco was one of the loveliest cars I had ever laid eyes, sexier than a T-birds wings or cute little german import. There was so many things I wanted to do in a car like that. Smaller than a regular bronco and unpretentious with a matte sandy paint and grey leather seats. I didn't know what year it was, how many miles per gallons it got or how many miles it had on it. It was used, it was me, and all those things didn't matter. I would take it at its face value if I could have it, and oh how I did want it. I asked my dad everyday before I got my real liscence if we could take a look at it, just to look, so that I could put my hands on the door handles. He claimed that broncos were risky, they flipped and that I didn't have the money to pay it off. That was true, I was saving with pennies for a college education, but I wanted that to be my car. I was heartbroken. The whole idea of it, so many stories I would have with it.

Driving down 460 East with both windows down, my left arm a bit darker than the right as I set it on the windows ledge all summer, baking it in the hot summer heat. My hair splaying out against the head rest and my white t-shirt light and yellow in the evening sun. Sunglasses tan cutting across my freckled cheeks as the streaks of sun pour through my spotted windshield like light through bubbly, cold beer. In that car I would drive through Waverly and hunt up a large tin of peanuts, homemade peanut butter, a bag of blueberry bagels, a couple of oranges and a jug of water. I'd set these in the back seat filled with plastic buckets for collecting shells, a bag of t-shirts and shorts and my mom's old sweaters, a shortie wet suit, a skim board and a big yellow dog named Lily. Conor Oberst would cry to me through my speakers as I'd head furthur East down to the port cities I haven't visited extensively since I was a child. Picking out salt water taffy in the corner stores I'd roll past the hotels and tourists. There I'd meet with old old friends and learn to surf in the Atlantic's small pull and push and visit the state park where I'd once gone as a child and seen horse tracks cutting through the white deep sand. There I would park and climb the dunes with my dog and read about the secret of Virginia Dare until the daylight ran out and I'd pitch my tent upon the sand or lay the back seat down and curl up with a dog as my partner and a towel as my pillow. After a deep dark night with a sea breeze chill along the leather seats I'd wake and run down the beach. Playing in the still cold water at dawn and watching the dolphin fins on the small rollers that hit the beach minutes later I'd fill up a whole day. Playing in the water before the start of fall takes all its warm heat away with the curving currents.

A car that smells like grapefruit and irish spring soap and has room enough for a disco ball in the back seat. Thats what that bronco would be. I still dream about it, about tracking sand onto it's floorboards and singing with Linda Ronstandt to the cold open sky along the deserted pine lined back roads, illuminating glowing eyes in the headlights as I rush by.

I want that car.