The Last Chevelle



The Last Chevelle


            “According to the App it’s about a mile ahead.”

            “I hope there’s not a long line, or we’ll have to pull off the road to charge somewhere,” I replied. “The car batteries are getting low.”

            “I trust you’ll be able to squeeze into the line.”

            “I can’t just butt in front of people. I’m not rude like you.”

            “Maybe you should be, things might get done a lot quicker.”

            “I see the light-sign coming up in the distance.” I pointed ahead. “Check your App again. What’s the status?”

            “It says there are seven cars connected. Hurry up, and we can get a place in line.”

            I slowed the car pulling it into the eighth place in the line, close enough to get a quick charge. Any position after ten cars made battery charging much slower, a time-consuming burden.

            “Just set it in disconnected, tow mode and we can rest while it charges.”

            “You mean I can rest,” I corrected. “You’re not the one doing all the driving.”

            “Neither are you.”

            “Just because the car is self-driving doesn’t mean I don’t still have to pay attention to what it’s doing. I must keep an eye on all the vitals.”


            The bus sized mobile charging unit was nicknamed the THROG, short for Tesla Highway

Recharging On the Go. Cordless car charging was the rage in 2027, but it was only a couple of years later when on the move charging became the ultimate travel luxury.

            “How long will it take for a full charge?”

            “The car has been running on a low for a few miles now, but this is one of the new high-speed charging THROGs.”

            “Isn’t it expensive to charge at high speed?”

            “It’s more expensive than the older models, but it just bills to my account. Besides it’s well worth the added convenience.”

            “You still didn’t answer my question.”

            “Maybe twenty minutes to get a full charge from the level the batteries are presently at,” I answered, “give or take. It sure beats the slow charging stations”

            “Look, cars one and two just pulled away.”

            “Good, then we’ll get a faster charge.”

            “You remember the old days of gas engines?”

            “Nope,” I replied sarcastically. “What are those?”

            “Not even your Nineteen seventy Chevelle?”

            I closed my eyes. How could I forget my 1970 Chevelle SS? 396 big block engine, cowl induction, Muncie M22 rock crusher transmission. I remember driving in Richmond, down Broad Street, and through the Fan District, an area referenced by the fan-shaped roads once home

to Confederate monuments. The past is now gone along with my Chevelle.

I felt a nudge, shaking me from my daydream.

            “Wake up, my App says we’re charged.”

            I became alert again and assessed the gauges. “That was fast. I thought we’d be here a while.”

            “Aren’t modern technologies such a nice luxury?”

            I flipped a couple of switches, and the car was on its way again, pulling itself back out into the stream of traffic. The thrill of driving gone.




J.B. Preston

J.B. Preston writes poetry, literary, and speculative fiction. He has a master’s degree in Library Science, and has worked as a bartender and librarian, both occupations giving him the life experiences that have helped create his works. He is published in The WestWard Quarterly.

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