Charlton Heston is my president

We had to pick a bumper sticker and write a story describing who we thought owned the car.

Intro to Fiction 0520

Fall 2006 September 6, 2006

Bumper Sticker: Charlton Heston is My President 

Sport utility vehicle, colored black, Chevy Blazer, older model but not too old, good condition and clean but stale looking, not shiny because of a recent washing and waxing, it just looks like something that gets used to suit a purpose. There’s a spare tire attached to the rear door and a luggage rack on the roof. I can’t justify looking inside this vehicle. It does not look interesting , enough to root through, I don’t see myself finding anything that will excite me. But, I will go inside this car anyway. The owner of this car is obviously a right-wing wacko, as evidenced by the bumper sticker, and is motivated by their hatred of everything, including themselves, so maybe I will steal something, or possibly to vandalize the car, or maybe I will leave the punishment to them for being a member of the NRA. 

I open a door, the scent of air freshener hits me, the interior of the car promises to be as boring as the exterior of it. The car is clean. I make out the odor of carpet and upholstery shampoo. The only other smell I can make out is the smell all cars had when they were still made of vinyl and
leather. I can smell my grandparents’ cars. The floor mats are of a hard rubber material, befitting the workman like tone of the car, they will be easy to keep clean. The seats are soft but cramp the people who sit in them-if I didn’t already know the make of the car I was in the cramped seats themselves would tell me I was in an American car. If you were to try and scratch an itch on these seats you’d give yourself a brush burn but still have the itch. 

I begin looking through the car. First, I look for the gun the owner has advertised, stislser, tit fhb. I can’t find it. Maybe he has it on him, or he keeps it at home. Gun laws don’t make it easy for people to keep guns in their cars. I see gum in the center console. The owner’s manual is in the glove compartment. I reach under the seats and feel what appears to be a magazine. I pull it out from under the seat and look at it. It’s a copy of Guns and Ammo. If this guy is one thing, it is consistent. I look at the backside of the visor, and there’s a mirror on it. I wonder why a man would have a mirror here. Women use them to put on make-up or to fix their hair. Why would a man want to look at himself when he is driving? If he needs to check his look, he can use the reflection from the glass from the outside of one of the windows.

This question I don’t get to answer as I suddenly feel myself being yanked from the car by the shoulder and thrown to the ground. I look up. A man is standing above me. “What are you doing in my car!” he screams at me. He is just what I expected. A white man, slightly above average in height, slim in build. He looks both bewildered and angry. His hands hang at his side. A woman stands several feet to his side. She is more apprehensive but is angry. She’s angry because she needs to be. Her anger isn’t genuine, it exists more to act as a barrier between her and me. The man still stands there. He is actually waiting for an answer. “Well you see,” I begin, “I have this writing class and the instructor told us to break into someone’s car… 

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