1966-chevy-malibuWords by Landon A.

Do you remember your first love? I remember mine. She was a 1966 Chevy Malibu with full chrome lips and clean kicks. I wasn’t her first. She’d been with an old lady from Jefferson County for the majority of her life and then she found the Lord when a priest from backwoods Kentucky snatched her up. But I was her third, and she was my first, and for $6,000 of hard earned cash she was mine forever. I was in love.

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When her whitewall’s set foot onto the pavement of my high school, eyes followed us all the way to the front parking spot. She was the slickest thing on four wheels. Together we blew the doors off other cars and silenced whining rice burners with the roaring battle cry of her shiny chrome pipes. She never got jealous when I’d bring her on dates. Hell, she even let us steam up the backseat when my parents were home.

But like all fairytale love stories, this one soured. It became harder and harder to feed her. Her favorite meal was premium gasoline, which was getting more expensive by the week. It seemed as soon as we hit the highway, she’d be hungry again, so I had to let her go.

Now, this new broad – Acura from Japan – is threatening to leave me. After two years of paying for her every need she’s all of the sudden became reluctant to wake up in the mornings. She’s even developed a little arthritis on her rotors. But from time to time when I’m dropping top dollar to have my new foreign squeeze serviced, I catch myself thinking about my first. I couldn’t tell you where she’s at right now, but if I had to guess, I’d say she’s rolling somewhere down Bardstown Rd. with brand new shoes and a pretty, dripping, red dress.

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