The Red Bullet Takes a Hit on I-95

Close-up of the Red Bullet's passenger side near the front fender well, where a small piece of plastic trim has been torn loose by a shredded tire on the highway — The damage — near the fender well, passenger side, front. Small in the picture, big in the heart.

I went down to McIntosh County today — an elder first, then Ricky Rocky Balboa. Long day, good day. Coming back up I-95, there was a shredded tire laid out across the off-ramp. The kind you see and think I'm clear, I'm clear… and then you hear the sound that tells you you weren't quite clear after all.

I didn't notice anything until I pulled into the gas station. Walked around the Red Bullet and there it was — a piece of her hanging off near the fender well on the passenger side, right up front. I pulled it the rest of the way off, set it in the trunk, and kept going.

It's nothing major. It just feels like the Red Bullet's been taking a beating lately.

The Red Bullet from the side, parked on the grass under live oaks dripping with Spanish moss, with the Cluckshack visible behind it — Side profile. Still standing. Still red. Still mine.

She's a 2018 Nissan Sentra and she's earned every mile. Long country roads and back. The 99 Retreat to Sterling and back. The folks I sit with, and Ricky's. The senior center in Eulonia. Doctor's appointments, grocery runs, the long quiet drives when I needed the windshield to do my thinking for me.

I got home and the rest of my grass had been mowed. I'd already been at it for two days, and Papa James had come and finished it for me — bless that man, but I had already sent my son an email asking them not to. I guess the email didn't make it in time. At the time, that was the rhythm we'd had for years. Seasons change, and so do families. The Cat Nap Inn is still mine, still loved, and still growing — just by different hands now.

The Red Bullet from the front, parked on the grass at the 99 Retreat, hood dusty, headlights still bright — Dusty hood, bright headlights. The Bullet does not care what the road threw at her.

What I'm taking away from it

You can be doing everything right — eyes up, hands at ten and two, giving the shredded tire a wide berth — and the road still gets a piece of you. That's the job. That's the work. You keep going. You note the damage. You put the piece in the trunk. You roll up to the next porch.

Tomorrow morning I have another visit. There is paperwork to start on getting a neighbor's floors fixed — the one you put on fish, on rice, on coon, on anything that holds still long enough. The Red Bullet will be in the drive. A little more scarred than she was yesterday. Still showing up.

A heart drawn in the condensation on a foggy window with the word HOPE inside it, raindrops scattered on the glass — Somebody drew this on a foggy window once. It still works.

Honey and teeth. Both, on purpose. ✿