MY HAUNTED PONTIAC

submitted by Canessa Rubio as told to Chaz Chestremski

     I was mad as beans in a drought as I weaved down a Johnson County dirt road. It was 1983, and I was about to embark on the most dubious of all respected degees...the MFA in Art. My anger at that point came from two unavoidable aspects of my life that day. One was the need for a babysitter for my daughter. I love my daughter dearly, but finding a babysitter on Tuesday, so I could take my night class, was always some sort of insane adventure. This particular one had me driving all over country roads trying to find the babysitter's house (even though I had an address, it was like finding a needle in a haystack...in other words, I was lost). The other annoying aspect of this evening was my car: a useless old '63 Impala that should have been shot and put out of its misery years ago. I remember looking out the rear view mirror to scan the vast blue-exhaust blanket covering the weeds and milkweed pods as I drove by. This, along with the constant clattering of the engine and various Chevrolet bodyparts, sent me into a daydream. Everyone has their dream car. I, like many others, longed for a car that fit my personality. A car that would reveal the "inner me". Also, I wanted a car that didn't burn oil and sound like a WWII Panzer coming down the road. But these dreams soon faded when I realized how lost I was. Was I still in Johnson county? I pulled to the side of the road to check my map.

     As I examined the various veins and arteries in and around the county, I began to dream again of the car that so filled my soul. My dream car was made on the year I was born, 1951. It was a Pontiac Firebird. Naturally, it would be rebuilt, with a new engine and parts. And it would be a shiny, glossy fire-apple red, so people would notice. I reflected on this for a moment, only to turn back to the map and concede defeat. My roomate was not going to watch my daughter all night, and if I couldn't find the babysitter's house by now, it was a lost cause. I started driving south, hoping to run into a highway that would lead me back to Iowa City.

     As I drove back along one of the gravel roads, I passed something in a ditch full of weeds. I wasn't sure what it was, but I was suddenly curious enough to want to turn around and take a look. As I drove past again, I slowed down to a complete stop, my jaw hanging open in disbelief. There in the weeds was...my dream car! Rusted and a bit decrepit from time was a '51 Pontiac Firebird. I just couldn't believe it! I parked the Impala and walked around it. In spite of its age, the car looked totally ressurectable. The interior looked almost good as new. After gaping there for a few minutes, I got back back in the Impala and drove into the driveway of the nearby farmhouse. I thought that they may have an idea of whose it was, or, if it was abandoned. In either case, my mind was set, I had to have that car.

     A tall, fiftyish man answered the door. I asked about the car. The old farmer said it was his and that he was actually looking for a buyer. Well, this was strange to say the least, but I was never a fan of The Twighlight Zone and this car was exactly what I wanted. The farmer quoted $200.00 as the sale price. "Not a penny less," he said. "To give it away would be wrong. Too many memories are in that vehicle." I was more than pleased to say yes and wrote him a check immediately for the Pontiac. After all, how often do opportunities like this occur, especially when you still have money left over from a grant. Then the old geezer offered to fix it up himself, even paint the damn thing in my color preference. "You're busy with your schoolwork," he advised, "Let my sons work on it. They got all the parts you need. Keep them busy and out of my hair." I didn't bother to ask why his sons weren't already busy helping him run the farm. But, like I said, I was just too happy. He said the car would be ready in a couple of weeks, and if I gave him the address, one of his sons would drive it up to me. I told him I lived at 838 Rundell St. and that I would patiently await the arrival of my 'new' Pontiac Firebird. We parted company and on the way home to Iowa City (I found the highway not a minute after I left the farmhouse) I yelled and screamed and pounded my fists against the dash with all the irreverent joy of kid going on summer vacation. A dream was beginning to unfold. Had I only realized the kind of dream it was, I would have never stopped at that farmhouse.

     In two weeks, to my heartfelt joy, my fire-apple red Pontiac made its entrance into my driveway. I was instantly the toast of the neighborhood. Everyone wanted to ride in the Firebird. And I was more than happy to oblige. I mean, how often do dreams come true?

     After a few weeks had passed, and the newness of the car had wore off, a very strange thing started to happen. As I would drive back and forth to campus every day, I would get an odd sort of feeling. Like someone looking straight at my back. On occaission I would turn around and look but there would be no one there. This didn't happen once or twice but actually dozens of times. I'd be on my way to the library and then it would happen. I'd look around, scan the back seat, and see that there was nothing there. I'd be on my way to the studio, thinking about an image I'd want to paint. Suddenly the image would disappear, and I would feel a tingling on my neck. I'd look around, but emptiness would be all that I would see. I am not superstitious by nature, but, quite frankly, this whole thing was starting to bother me. I couldn't concentrate on schoolwork or painting 'cause the car would always be on my mind. I almost had an accident one night on my way to a faculty dinner. I was driving with my 6 year old daughter in the front seat, rehearsing her in manners at such functions, when suddenly I felt as though someone was about to choke me from behind. I whirled around instinctively, but as soon as I saw nothing there, a car came within inches of hitting us. I just managed to brake in time. But the whole event freaked both me and my daughter.

     Finally, the last thing that made me a believer in hauntings started to occur around December. Along with the creepy rear seat nonsense going on, I began to see two shadow-like figures in the back seat at night. It would usually happen right after the sun went down. I'd be studying or cooking or something, when inexorably, I would start to wander to the window and look out at my front yard where both the Pontiac and Impala sat. Always, I would see two figures in the back seat. And on some nights, gleaming eyes could be seen coming from these shadows. This continued all through the month, until I stopped driving the Pontiac and went back to my gas guzzler Chevy. My daughter never saw these personages or ghosts or whatever they were in the backseat. And for that I'm glad. I certainly didn't want to be thought a psycho by my friends so I have never told them. But I couldn't take it anymore. I sold the car to a chemistry undergrad for $125.00. I didn't tell him about the ghosts. I am a firm believer in passing the buck, especially if the buck has eyes that shine evilly out at you from the backseat of your car. I'm finished with school now and have my degree. The only fears I harbor now is a pink slip, and that's enough terror to live with for me.





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