Ode to The Midnight Cruiser
by Charles C. Cole
Janko Bukovac, mid-thirties, solitary and practical, had suffered the loss of a dear old friend. He had watched the approaching transition for years and was emotionally ready, mostly. He rolled his old Toyota Corolla into the abandoned cellar hole beside his barn. It dropped heavily with some dramatic squeaking and groaning, sending chills down his spine.
He then used his 1939 Allis-Chalmers tractor gently to push loose earth and cow manure over his first car, his high school companion, now lost to rust, a cracked head and a critical matter of running out of oil.
This was Weezer Township, isolated country for the self-sufficient. Nobody took their irreparable car or washer or refrigerator to a landfill the other side of the county. Usually, a fellow just backed up to an old quarry or ravine when nobody was watching and then drove away lighter. But “Felonius,” named after lyrics in a song by 1970s American rock band Steely Dan, deserved better.
Janko had never been a crier, with the exception of his childhood hound who’d lost an inadvisable battle with an old bobcat. When he was done, Janko hopped down from his tractor and spat on the ground at his feet, rubbing it into the earth with the toe of his boot.
Swain Clatchee, who had been a friend for most of his days, stood nearby. He wasn’t there to judge or offer advice, just to help a neighbor through an emotional rough spot. Life would go on, but transitions were not always easy.
“Damn shame,” said Janko. “That car got me through two break-ups, not to mention that summer my folks threatened to kick me out and I had to live in it. We were gonna drive across the country, go to Stuckeys and eat pecan pie like it was bacon. Didn’t happen. Some dreams die hard.”
“You had a few good times as I recall,” said Swain.
“Another man cleverer than me might have saved him for spare parts, but I couldn’t stand the idea of watching him deteriorate, like the way my grandfather did. This was the best I could do. Hardly seems enough.” Janko rubbed the back of his hand across his stubble. “Why’s living got to be so damn hard?”
“Thanks for calling me,” said Swain. “I’m glad I got to say good-bye.” Swain was sincere. “I remember us stretched out on the hood late at night, out in the field, watching shooting stars and listening to music, talking about girls. Those were the days.”
“One day,” said Janko, “that’s gonna be me down there.”
“You got plenty more miles yet, if you take care of yourself.”
“Swain Clatchee, ever the optimist.”
“It makes it easier to get out of bed in the morning,” said Swain, joking.
The two stood there a long quiet moment, then three, punctuated by long sighs.
“Did you want me to say a few words?” asked Swain, a popular local lay minister. “I can.”
“Your being here is plenty,” said Janko. “There is one thing, though. But it feels disrespectful.”
“Anything for a friend.”
“Maybe we should head in the house. Get a couple of light mixed ones. I’m parched.”
“For Heaven’s sake, man,” said Swain, “just ask.”
Janko lowered his voice. “I wondered if you could drive me over to Bobby Varney’s. He says he’s got a Camry his daughter doesn’t want. Thinks it’s in pretty good shape and offered me a good deal. Said I’d be doing him a favor.”
Swain put a strong left hand on his friend’s nearest shoulder. “Janko,” he said, “Felonius would understand. Life goes on.”
“It’s for Raylene, the next generation, so’s she can drive home on weekends, do her laundry, take a break. All that studying’s got to be a pressure cooker. And if anything happens, she can get away.”
“You thinking of the recent campus shooting across the border?” asked Swain delicately.
“Maybe I am.”
“Ray-Ray always had a good head on her shoulders,” said Swain. “She’s a survivor.”
“When it first happened, I called her. Said, in my stern Papa Bear voice, that the signs were clear and she had to leave and come home where it’s safe. That didn’t go over. She hung up on me. But we worked through it: I came around to her perspective, against my better judgment. ‘Opportunities come with risks,’ she said, like the business major she is.”
“I might be wrong,” said Swain, “but I got a funny feeling the Lord has got plans for that one.”
“I wanted to give her a gun, so she can defend herself if she’s ever in trouble, but she outright refused. Being civilized in the city is a little different than being civilized in the county. Around here, nobody ever shot anyone who didn’t deserve it.”
Swain shook off the thought. “So, you want a ride? I got time.”
“Maybe a drink first. We can sit up on the roof and chuck rocks at the hens.”
Swain had a wan smile. “Let’s get that car first. Feels a little more productive. Then, we’ll see.”
Before they left, Swain said a few silent words over the immense grave. Janko looked down and then away.
Copyright © 2026 by Charles C. Cole
