“How about the tires, are they new?” the father, a sixty-year-old man, asked. “Ah, they are alright, almost new, very well preserved,” I lied. I don’t know if he heard me. It was very noisy in the car. We had pulled the windows down so the air could circulate in and out of the coupe. I was also wearing a mask, which muffled my voice. We’re in the middle of a Coronavirus epidemic, after all. We were driving through the dense web of streets on the West Side of Binghamton on a cold and gloomy Tuesday in late October. I was freezing, sitting in the back seat of the Lancer. 

The man’s daughter, a twenty-year-old blonde who was driving somewhat recklessly, struggled with the manual gears. I felt that was precisely why she had answered the advertisement to sell my old Mitsubishi; she likes a challenge. She was a student at the university in the town, she’d said. The Lancer was a perfect car for her. It would keep going for a year, maybe a couple, but most likely not. Anyway, I was selling it for just eight hundred dollars.

The young woman behind the wheel seemed to be deliberately hitting the potholes, and the uneven spots on the road. I was worried that a shock would go through the chassis, or the engine would fall off. The bottom of the car was very rusty. “How old is the car?” the father asked. As if I had not told him already numerous times.“Sixteen years.” I replied. “It’s old...” the old man quipped back. “Eh, it’s not in bad condition,” I stated. “Hmm...” he uttered.  

We had introduced ourselves to each other, but as usual, I had already forgotten their names. It didn’t matter. I didn’t have to know their names to sell them the old jalopy. “Does it burn a lot of gas?” The man asked, after looking at the fuel meter where the light next to the empty signal was now lit up. Principally I never instill much fuel because there is a gasket that has been leaking, but now, I had forgotten to put even a little gas, and at any moment, we could end up stranded in the middle of the road. Otherwise, the car was burning a lot of gas – the engine was in bad shape. It was burning oil as well, and I had to even add to that from time to time.

“Ah, burning...it’s a small car. Economic.“ I lied cheerfully. That geezer was getting on my nerves. What is with the thousand questions, I wondered incredulously to myself. It was evident that I was selling the car so cheaply because it was a beater. I would have explained  everything about the car’s issues, but quite frankly, I felt like he was a dishonest man. He asked questions that he already knew the answers to so that he can sabotage the deal. If it were up to the girl, the deal would have already happened. It was clear that she liked the little gray Lancer. 

I would have told her what kind of repairs she needed to do and how to maintain it to keep it working for a while, but that geezer was picking a fight. I was lying for the sport, but it seemed that those lies didn’t amount to much anyway. One way or the other, I wouldn’t be able to sell the car, so I decided to relax. I sank in the back seat, wrapping myself in my jacket. It felt strange to ride in the back seat. There was plenty of room despite the small coupe. 

I felt like I was observing myself from the outside – I had been agitated. “Why was it so important to sell the car for eight hundred dollars that I have to lie like that?” I wondered silently to myself. I would make it without the money. Isn’t this world full of liars? Does it really need another one – me? If it were only the girl, I would have given her the car for free at that moment, I felt so moved by my thoughts, but that old geezer – out of spite, I wouldn’t give him even the smallest discount for the Lancer.

"Winter is coming - you need good tires," the man said, presently. “The tires are okay,” I muttered, defeatedly from the back. Although the girl in the driver’s seat was driving quite fast, I relaxed in the back seat, and like countless other times these days, I felt like meditating. A sense of calmness and warmth engulfed me. I looked out of the car window. So many things were going on out there in the world. We were quickly passing by buildings, intersections, people with dogs or just people, pedestrians and bicyclists, and passing cars on the street. So many fates, each one hurries for somewhere, I thought then...or was it only us? We passed by a black guy sitting on the curb, smoking. Our eyes met as we passed him by with wild speed. Some form of connection appeared between us. Both he and I were observers in that crazy whirl of motion; we were like pylons of tranquility in the middle of the hurricane. 

Looking at him smoking so calmly, I wished for a cigarette although I am not a smoker. I thought that if I were driving, I would have pulled over and asked him for a cigarette. We would have talked friendly, not like enemies, as I spoke with the geezer in the front seat. I would be honest. I would be myself. I would ask him what he thinks of  Covid-19, social distancing, and when he believes it will pass if it ever even does, or will something nastier come our way?

I would ask him how we will survive capitalism. Crisis after crisis, each one worse than the one before – will everything break apart in the end? Was he feeling well? Were the people in Binghamton racists? Do they mistreat him because of the color of his skin? I knew the answer to that question. What does he think of our president? That guy seemed so wise, sitting there on the curb. He would surely know about all these things I would ask him, and he would give me correct sensible answers. We would talk soul to soul, nothing like how I talked with that geezer; me lying to him, him lying to me, and because of it, my chest felt hollow.

“Drive slower,” it seemed as if the father said to the girl. I was far, somewhere too far away from the car to hear him well, I was on a strange journey within myself. We were passing by buildings, cars, and people. Why should I care about the buildings and cars? I cared about people. Society – isn’t the treasure of the society the people that build it? Not buildings and cars that people sell for money? Here we are, ready to grab each other by the throat for a beater. Let them have it – I thought. I decided that I will give it to them for free. We needed to help each other, push each other up, not drag each other down. The rubbish Lancer didn’t deserve my lies. I didn’t care if I lied as long as I lied about something I care about. 

“See how it slides in the corners; its tires are worn out, “ the father said, the car indeed slid in a turn. He shouted something, and we drove directly against a pickup truck, side-swiping it. There was a scream and then a crash, dull thump. For a second, I lost consciousness. When I came to my senses, my ears were ringing, and my forehead hurt where I had hit the back of the front seat. I touched my face – there wasn’t any blood. I tried to examine my neck – it wasn’t hurting too bad. 

I opened the door. The car was pretty badly smashed, and the motor was hissing quietly, letting out some steam from the punctured radiator. The girl in the front seat was fighting the airbag, which had been deployed. I shouted to her loudly so she could hear me, “Don’t move your head. Look ahead and lean back.” she listened and leaned back on the seat. The driver of the pickup truck got out. He was shouting, “Idiots! She got into my lane, the little bitch...”

I left him shouting and went to the other side of the Lancer. The geezer had hit his head badly in the column of the car and was bleeding. “Don’t move your head! Lean back. Don’t get out – wait for the ambulance!" I instructed him. The other driver shouted a bit more, then started inspecting his truck with a solemn look on his face. The truck was badly damaged. 

I was observing myself again from a third-person perspective. In the middle of the scene, my car radiator was steaming, the two in the Lancer facing forward with a terrified look on their face, and a crowd was starting to gather around. The black guy who I’d seen before appeared. He approached, took off his face mask, and used it as a gauze on the old geezer’s wound. I don’t know if that was the smartest thing to do, but it was some solution to the situation. It wasn’t long before the ambulance came. The father and the daughter got in the ambulance, and the other driver and I waited for the next. They even turned on the siren when they were giving us a ride to the hospital.

There were many people wearing masks in the ER waiting to be examined, looking at each other with suspicion. It was as if they were trying to guess who had Covid and who didn’t. I had an X-ray done, then a nurse told me that I could go home. I also spoke to the police officers waiting outside, and told them what happened as far as I could remember. 

I then took a cab and went home. It was dusk, getting dark out quickly. I felt like I was freezing cold suddenly. I had been feeling cold for a while, but I had blocked it till now. I also felt drained. I thought that now the geezer would pay me the eight hundred dollars for the Lancer. After all, it was his daughter who caused the crash. What was more important was I hoped the girl and her father were alright, even if they might decide not to pay for the crashed car.

I looked down the street, which disappeared in the darkness, for the last time, then went home.