A Cherry Ride

Ron is real.  I know, he’s just so dreamy, it’s hard to believe.  Happy Ronday!

(So, to refresh – Ron and my sister had broken up but now she was suddenly in posession of his cat. Which I had “forced” her to lie to me about )

Ron knew he was on my list – and not in a good way. Although I couldn’t stop my sister from dating him, I didn’t have to hang around him myself.

My sister came over to my house for the day, but Ron was picking her up that evening for a date (a grand affair consisting of dinner at Burger King and a DVD, I’m sure) and he wanted to come and pick her up at my house.

Not comfortable with the thought of him in my new home, I suggested that the backroads were tricky, and that I would bring her down to the local shopping plaza close to my house instead. (Incidentally, the same plaza where she used to sit for hours waiting for her roommate to finish working. . .)

My sister relayed that he was excited to show me his “new ride.” I gave her a small smile but said nothing – already dreading the experience.

His “ride” was as I had imagined – a dinged-up black camaro type thing complete with matte-finished bondo paint and ruby red rust. He sat in it, waiting for us, his gold-rimmed shades hiding his watery blue eyes and his arm resting on the opened window ledge.

He saw us and got out after giving us sufficient time to presumably admire his ride. He came over to my side of the car and tapped on the glass – expecting me to roll down my window in the crisp winter air. Realizing he wouldn’t go away and nauseous at his pants standing so close to my face, I reluctantly rolled it down.

He immediately leaned in – thrusting his head in to my car – his eyes making me glad I wore a turtleneck that day.

“Whaddya think?” he asked proudly.

I thought many things, but didn’t feel it very christian to repeat them at the moment.

“I bet it was a beauty in its day.” I said instead.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I’m just trying to decide now whether to register and insure it now or spend the money on repainting it. Cause it’s a sweet ride and will be so cherry with a new coat of paint.”

“It’s not insured?”

“Yeah, but it’s fine. I used my ex-wife’s old license plate and the renewal tag on that is only a few months old so the cops won’t care.”

I looked at my sister at this point. “Would you like me to take you home instead?”

She laughed at me. “It’ll be fine, sis – we’ve been riding around in it for a few weeks and nothing has happened. Besides – he’s going to get it insured – he promised.”

So I watched as she got in his car and drove away, feeling like a bad parent of some sort.

Later that night, the car wouldn’t start. A friendly cop stopped by to see if he could help – and then impounded the “sweet ride.” Ron couldn’t pay the impound fee and several tickets associated with it and last I knew, his “cherry ride” was still there.

Evidently, cops do care.