Read Online 90_Minutes_to_Live by JournalStone - Free Book Online Page A

forty-something. He could have bought a brand-new car but he chose this one instead. Already a classic, it had been on the road more than three decades. He picked it because it was like his first car, the one he'd bought with his own money as a teenager. He'd loved that car too, until he was drafted into the Army and had to sell it. When he got this one, he vowed never to part with it.
    He grasped the chrome handle and pressed the button that opened the door. Not a console pad or touch-screen but a real mechanical button. The immaculate white vinyl beckoned him, but bending down and sliding into the seat was tricky. He managed it though, resting his hands on the steering wheel. The hard resin finish was smooth as a woman's thigh. He stroked it lovingly, his hands coming to rest on its chrome centerpiece, where a silver horse galloped ever-in-place across a red, white and blue field.
    He pumped the accelerator once, twice, three times and released it–a routine ingrained in him by his own father more than a century ago. He turned the key and felt the eight-cylinder beast rear up, its 289 cubic-inch engine roaring through dual exhaust. Twice more he pumped fuel into the four-barrel carburetor. She pulled at the reins but hushed as he lifted his foot, routinely checking the gauges. He needed to order more gas.
    The garage door activated and he drove out into the sunshine.
    He could still handle her, as long as he didn't push it, his reflexes not being as prompt as they once were. He drove past Cecilia's place. She was outside messing with her plants. She smiled and waved. He gave her a cursory wave back.
    The woman had designs on him–he was sure. It didn't seem to matter to her that she was young enough to be his granddaughter. Hell, twenty or thirty years ago he might have taken her up on it and given her the thrill of her life. Now he just humored her because her son was some fancy engineer who liked antiques. He was the only person Ben knew who could work on the old Ford when some part needed replacing.
    He took his usual route, an old paved road running down by the sea cliffs and getting little use these days. He was glad he lived far from the city proper, teeming as it was with what they called people-movers and urban-cycles –not to mention all the crazy flying contraptions taking off and landing all over the place. He didn’t want to maneuver through those streets. He’d tried it once. It was like being a potato bug in a swarm of bees. No, he was content to cruise his back roads, reveling in the stares he provoked.
    She still drove like a dream, that car—smooth, steady, yet she had the get-up-and-go when he felt like testing her. He was sure she could outrun any of those flying cars—that was, if they stayed grounded.
    "Yes sir, they don't make 'em like this anymore," he said aloud, smiling at his own inanity. "Hold it together Benny, don't start talking to yourself."
    He glanced at his rearview mirror and thought for a moment he saw something. He looked again but nothing was there. Nothing but an empty road and the hundreds of thousands of miles he had left behind. That’s the way life was, always trailing behind…memories always back there a ways, just beyond the vanishing point.
    He reached over, opened the console and pulled out a small, clear plastic baggie. Sealed inside it was a lock of light red hair—her hair—still as soft looking as the first day he'd laid eyes on it so many years before. He kept it in the car for good luck. Maybe that's why the old engine had lasted so long. He put the baggie back.
    Off to his left now, far down from the cliff wall, was the ocean. It was a balmy day and the waters were tranquil. He couldn’t see a whitecap or a single vessel all the way to the horizon. The only thing marring the view was a phalanx of rusted old wind power turbines, plumbing the depths offshore.
    When he decided to turn around and drive home, he noticed the engine was running hot. Worried she might