Sputtering

The engine is off, but he's not ready to get out of the car. Turning the key was more of an automatic gesture. His father's voice echoes somewhere in a memory, reminding him to save his gas instead of wasting it.

This car smells like his father. Something about the leather and the faint smoke brings an image of the old man to the forefront of his mind. Dad didn't smoke when Chuck knew him, but the garage held that lingering scent from before his time, and the stench clung to Dad's clothes after he spent long hours tinkering on some old machine that might never run again.

The car he sits in now, waiting outside the house, had been one of those machines, back when he was just a kid and driving was a far-off fantasy. Dad had bought it used from the neighbor down the street, and together he and Dad had rolled it to their house. It didn't run then. And now Chuck could not imagine driving anything else.

This is all Dad had left him, an old boat of a car. Few memories, good or bad. Just a car that ran well despite its age and wearing down.

Chuck knows that he's getting older and wearing down, too. His patience is not what it used to be, and he spends a few evenings each week alone with a six pack and his thoughts. So maybe Dad left him more than a car, after all.

The porch light comes on, and Chuck sighs, knowing he can't hide out here much longer. Nieces and nephews are huddled in the window. They're excited to see him, but they don't understand why. He knows it's more about the bag of presents in his trunk and less about his sparkling personality. Like a cheap champagne, he's not so much "sparkling" as he is explosive and bitter.

Dad left him some sarcasm, too.

He could turn the car back on. He could drive away, and save himself the agony of small talk and empty compliments and questions he can't answer. He could turn around and never come back.

But he won't. His father's voice reminds him that that would be a waste of gas. And Chuck refuses to allow himself to be any more of a waste.