Gerry Thibeault
Bio
aspiring poet working on his first chapbook of poetry...
Stories (72)
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Headlights Dim in the Distance
Out the window, in the distance, I watch the headlights of a car fade. A sliver of moon glared through a sliver in the drapes, penetrating my early morning eye. There was wood or maybe I just had to pee. It was gone as quickly as it had arrived, pulling soft light out of a distant morn. I could roll over for comfort like I used to, comfort was there, but not as willing as she once was, besides the Black Lab between us claimed a big stake in it. Most people tell me they prefer buttons on the dash of their car opposed to the hard edge of a computerized flush screen in modern cars. I like ease, the cleanliness screens clean lines have to offer —but I still believe a car should have round headlights, it’s just the era my love comes from.
By Gerry Thibeault18 days ago in Poets
Good Used One
You never thought you were worthy of a new one, as much as you admire the new ones, commitment and high maintenance were always paramount in your mind. You always found the new ones to be intimidating, good used on the other hand are hard to find, that is what your mom always said. Hopeful mother always hoped you would take a leap into a new one. Today you think maybe it’s time to get a new one, but then you walk past the new ones because across the street you see what might be a good used one. Scratched, a few small dents with a scuff on the front bumper. Not looking too bad for its age, you take it for a test drive. Immediately you notice it has its own characteristics. A stubborn personality of its own with the occasional twitch to the left, a couple of spare tires, leftover baggage in the trunk, a twenty-footer that smokes, a little raspy grunt as it starts up. You wonder, can that be fixed? Maybe it's the smoke, the years of cheap gasoline causing that sound when the engine starts up. Maybe a good oil change will help it out. Once warm it settles to a not so raspy toon. A crack in the windshield is to be expected. It's easily been around the block and you think it looks a little odd with two larger tires in the back. The smell of old man wafts up into your face as you slam your ass between the lumbar of the driver's seat and again when you corner a bit too hard. Silent, the salesperson sits and appears to be a bit nervous. You can see this nervousness with your peripheral vision. The focus is stiffly straight ahead and you wonder, maybe I drive a bit too fast, but you do not slow down, because you always liked the fast ones that handle well in the corners and maybe the salesperson was just pretending not to notice the smell or hoping you were not thinking it was coming from their side just as the window cracked open a bit. After the test drive you stand in the parking lot with your hands in your pockets surrounded by all the other good used ones. You're focused on the new ones across the street. The one’s mom wishes for. That is when the salesperson starts with the story, it is just like mom said, Every good used one has a story. Don’t be fooled by it. You are polite, you listen and hope it is not the story about the old lady. This was my son's used one, after it had been owned by an old lady since new. Immediately you think here we go with the old lady story. I never intended to sell it, after my son's tragic accident that left him bedridden. Always hoped he would get well. My spouse died a year ago. Couldn't bear it, fell face first onto the floor. Died of a broken heart—that is what the doctors said. You listen patiently through a pause. I'm going through some hard times, and it must go. The salesperson lit a smoke. One puff, then a raspy cough. Over-and-over the cough and you thought a lung might fall out. Name your price. The salesperson says, turns briefly to gob, It’s the best one of the used ones. You stand silent, your hands in your pockets looking at the new ones across the street, easily within reach, all you need to do is walk away.
By Gerry Thibeault20 days ago in Poets
