Backroads, A Draft

This is what happened when George tried to start the car.

He was all set to begin a cross-country tour de force, had all his maps stacked atop one another in a lockable, leather briefcase he bought from an antique store, a bag of clothes and camping gear all rolled up into a duffel bag that was tossed into the back, and a stack of cd's -- turn of the century recordings of Mahler and Beethoven -- shuffling underneath a water bottle that would hopefully slide with the turns and ups and downs of the road. To give that jangly feeling to the front cab.

There was nothing extraordinary about the keys, and he had just checked the oil not but moments before.

But when he turned the key, and crested over the hill, he saw blades of grass sneaking out from underneath the hood; then he hit a bump, some worn-out chip in the concrete, and the trunk popped open and there were the flowers. A garden had grew in his trunk while he was driving.

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