combustion engine
short story
Not an atom dared to fidget, scared into stasis by the starry sky that had allowed the last of the day’s heat to dissipate from nothing to less than nothing in the standard manner of cloudless Upstate New York nights of February.
“It’s cold as fuck,” Frank announced as they stepped outside. Ash gave him a skeptical scan as he locked the door.
“Well, yeah,” she admitted. It was her thing to bust him when he complained about the cold climes she had dragged him to, but there was no denying it this time. “When that’s what you’re wearing, you’re gonna freeze no matter what though.”
Frank had on a pea coat she’d gifted him many years before, made of a cheap, thin, felt-like material meant for less extreme temperatures, and was sans hat or gloves. He insisted everywhere he went had the warm nights of Orange County, southern California where he was raised.
Ashley had no such illusions, born and raised in Upstate New York as she was, and had on: a Phish t-shirt, a long-sleeve shirt her friends got her from a gift shop in Lake Placid, her high school basketball hoodie over that, a scarf and hat both knitted by her mother, and worn, thick gloves she’d inherited from her father that made her feel like she had bear paws. And of course, an old Columbia ski jacket she’d had since 8th grade.
“Do I have to mother you into wearing the appropriate clothes from now on?” she complained as they carefully treaded over the ice on the walkway they had neglected to throw salt on. Her boots had much better traction than his Puma Suedes.
“I don’t really have much else,” he said as they got in his defeated-looking Chevy Trax, which they should have already started but—luckily—there was no ice to melt from its windshield.
“My ass, you don’t have much else. You have hoodies, gloves, I know you have a knit hat from my mother...”
Frank’s pale, purple hands were nearly translucent as they gripped the wheel after the engine was dragged just barely to life by the ignition. Ashley flicked the heater on to what might be described as “flame-flower mode.”
“Ah, but that stuff doesn’t go with the rest of the ensemble,” he said.
Coolness making him cold, that was Frank’s problem. Wouldn’t be caught too warm in a handmade hat she knew him to have described as ‘granola’, especially since it would mess up his hair.
She knew the solution was to buy him the requisite cold-weather accoutrement for his Southern California fashion sensibilities. But since the move, neither he nor she could afford to, the purse strings tightened as they were by the buying of new furniture and blinds and carpets to fill their empty first home. So his winter wardrobe went un-updated.
“Who are you trying to impress, anyway? It’s just my friends you’ve met a thousand times,” she said. The headlights swept across the barren landscape as they turned onto a country road. It was hard to remember what the color green looked like when strewn across the trees and ground.
“I know, I know. But you know me, the clothes need to reflect my truest self to feel comfortable.”
“Your truest self involves a peacoat?”
“As true as it can get in this weather.”
“You’re not a SoCal man anymore Frank. You gotta become an Upstate New York man.”
“But it’s also, like, I don’t get how you can go and wear all that. Once you get inside, aren’t you hot? Why should I bundle up when the cold is only transitory?”
“It’s called layering, Frank. Layers. I go in this, but if I get hot, I just take a layer off.”
“Seems like a lot of work.”
“You’re a lot of work. Why let yourself suffer?”
“Because,” he started, then disaster struck in the form of a soft bing and the light from a dashboard icon, the bane of every average-incomed car owner.
“What is that? WHAT IS THAT?!” Ashley pointed her gloved finger to the illuminated icon and bobbed in her seat.
“Hmm, I’m not sure,” Frank intoned in the voice he used to invoke calm. “Flick on the light and get the manual out of the glove compartment. There should be a section showing what each icon means.”
“Oh my god, oh my god.” Ashley switched on the light and they became an illuminated fishbowl racing through the Upstate backcountry darkness. She fumbled through the glovebox and withdrew the manual, removing her gloves to flip the pages effectively.
“Here, here!” She pointed to a page.
“I’m going to need you to read it, Ash, I’m driving,” Frank said with patience.
“Oh gosh babe, it’s the engine temperature light!”
“Like, it’s too cold?”
“No, no like it’s overheating!”
“How is that possible?” Frank said, mostly to himself. He stroked the Van Dyke goatee he’d cultivated since they moved, a concession to the need for a warmer upper lip and chin that he felt was an adequate compromise on coolness. “I guess maybe the water pump broke? Or the coolant is leaking?”
“Frank, it says to stop the car immediately if that comes on!”
They always knew things were tense when pet names were abandoned for their first names.
“Ash, I mean, we’re like 30 minutes away, you don’t think we could make it? I mean we’re blasting the heat, that probably helps, and it’s so cold out it—”
“I am not going to end up driving a fireball. PULL OVER FRANK!” Ashley screeched, and was seconds later echoed by the screech of the tires against the frozen ground.
“Okay, okay,” Frank assured her as they came to a stop. He had turned off into the Round Lake lookout that was in summertime a nice place to park for a hike but in the winter, not much of anything other than for the occasional ice-hole fisherman. “Should I turn off the car?”
The temperature reading on the dash showed the atmosphere around the car did not have a degree in Fahrenheit to spare.
“I’m Googling. It says we could crack the engine block if we keep it running,” she said.
They both knew what that probably meant: a fix they couldn’t afford. And since they were both working from home now, they had sold their other car to get some liquid cash and they’d be left with zero cars, just as inconvenient a proposition in upstate New York as it was in Los Angeles. Only with worse weather.
Frank had no choice but to turn the key out of the ignition and launch them into the stillness and quiet of the impending cold before he breathed:
“What do we do?”
“Triple-A,” Ashley said, pulling it up on her phone. Frank fished his own phone out and was surprised to see it was dead, the little battery life he thought it had left strangled by hypothermia. He cupped his hands and blew into them.
Ashley never understood why or how that was effective. If the body had warmth to spare, why not just send it to the fingertips directly instead of having to blow into them?
AAA answered her immediately and said it’d be an hour before they could get out there.
An hour of Shackletonian dread.
“Should we call my parents?” Ashley suggested. Frank shook his head, staring out over the frozen lake.
“It’d be at least an hour for them too,” he pointed out. Ironic, since one of the main reasons they moved was to be closer to her parents.
“I’ll call Marisa,” Ashley said. “Maybe if she’s on the way to Jared’s already, it wouldn’t be out of her way.”
It turned out that Marisa was going to be late to game night and would swing by in thirty minutes to rescue them.
In the meantime, Frank needed warming and Ashley needed calming, so she opened up her ski jacket and Frank stuck his arms within it and around her. They hugged over the stick shift.
“I’m sorry,” Frank whispered, already shivering. His breath went cool in the short transit from his mouth to her ear.
“For what?” Ashley asked.
“Being such an idiot. We’d be fine if I dressed warmer,” he chattered.
“It’s not your fault the car died. I’m sorry too.”
“What could you possibly be sorry for?”
“Bringing you out here. Making us leave SoCal.”
“Oh come on. How often do you have to make me say corny-ass things and quote the Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes song?”
He could feel her smile. There was no light but the moon’s. The silent car felt like a tin box floating in the black vacuum of space.
“I read this thing once about these monks in the Himalayas, they can like meditate and warm their own bodies, melt the snow around them. We should try it,” Frank suggested in the voice that even after eight years with him, Ashley had trouble identifying as either serious or jocular.
“Oh, yeah, I’m sure it’s super easy, not like they train their whole lives for that...”
“No no, I think we can do it,” he said, burrowing his head into her neck below the scarf. “Breath with me.”
His breath turned to kisses on her neck.
By the time their friend pulled into the overlook, the insides of the Chevy’s windows had been steamed to opacity in the moonlight, condensation caused by the mysterious workings of two human internal combustion engines, one dressed for the weather and one decidedly not.
thanks for reading this story involving a pea coat. even if you didn’t like it, maybe click the little heart button so that people who might will find it.
BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS:
Frank and Ashley have distinct reactions to their situation. How are their responses reflective of their clothing?
Do you think that Frank and Ashley make a good pair?
thanks for reading PNP, where we hate it when we get dash light warnings. if you liked this story, you might also like my novel, the big T, posted here on Substack:
"Seems like a lot of work."
"You're a lot of work."
Hehe. Nothing better than bantering couples. Great read as always, Clancy.
Wow! Your characterization is so good and natural even from such a short story. I felt very endeared to both Frank and Ash, maybe its the dialogue. Awesome!