Elijia Wilson was a small, frail old man. Elijia kept mostly to himself, and rarely left his home except to go on nice, peaceful car rides in his '57 Corvette, his pride and joy. Elijia was rapidly balding, and what hair he did have was short, wispy and white. His faithful companion, the Corvette, had a flamboyant red body and doors that had an enlarging streak of white across them. The Goodyear tires were brand new and coal black with shiny whitewalls. Elijia had acquired the car at an auction in a sleepy town in Pennsylvania in 1983. The car had been bought for $50,000, and the value had raised considerably with inflation and Elijia's loving care. He would not even think of selling it; it was the only valued possession of a lonely old man.
On this particular Friday afternoon, the third of June, 1994, the weather was beautiful. There was not a cloud in the sky, and the brilliant sun was out in force. At around two o'clock, Elijia left his humble abode in his vintage roadster, going a safe sixty miles an hour on a public highway. As he drove, Elijia examined the roadside. He viewed brightly colored wildflowers and the occasional road kill.
Elijia took Exit 57 off the main highway after about a half hour of uneventful cruising. Exit 57 led dear Mr. Wilson to a small desolate-looking town 20 miles away from any large city. A small intersection appeared to be the only activity in the whole town, with beat-up pick-up trucks sporadically crossing it. Elijia was approaching the intersection at 45-miles-per-hour and a green light. Just before the benign old man and the sleek agile roadster crossed the intersection, the traffic light changed to yellow, and then quickly to red. A half-blind native of this sleepy town in a decrepit Ford pick-up was at the other side of the intersection, the side whose light just turned green, stepped on the gas and boom!
Mr. Elijia Wilson's '57 'Vette had a pick-up truck sticking out of its side like a rusty tumor. The white streaked door on the right side of the car was completely ruined with the pick-up clinging at a deranged angle which did not help the scene. Neither Elijia nor the half-blind native was hurt, but Elijia was crying as though he had just lost a relative. The police arrived, insurance information was exchanged and tow trucks did their duty. Never again did Mr. Elijia Wilson feel the same bliss he felt when driving that '57 Corvette with white streaked doors. 1
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.