Greasy Grimy Chauffeur Guts – 25th Oct

The scarred tree groans in the wind, the wrecked car resting against the stripped bark. This road has too many bends, too many trees. A professional driver, too. How fast? Well, too fast. There was some oil on the tarmac, he hit the brakes just as he hit the patch. Skidded and that was that. The next tree, well that’s dead wood. Not his lucky day, I guess. He’s a real mess, you wouldn’t want to have been first on the scene. Funny how smart the light grey uniform still is, even the cap. The cap? Don’t mention the cap, it’s not that easy to know where the cap ends and his cap starts – no don’t look. Yes it’s funny how smart the uniform is, yet his hands and face are so dirty. Maybe, yes maybe that comes from the crash, but I’m not so sure. They found his grubby overalls in the washing machine at the house. Very odd. You think? He’d been working on the car, quickly changed and then went out for this drive? But why? There was no reason, he had no one to fetch, no errand to run, why was he out? And what was he doing with the car? The brakes? The brakes were shot? How odd, he was a mechanic as well as the driver, he knew cars backwards, inside out. Why didn’t he notice the brakes? He’d just been working on it…. Oh I see….. well, he had guts, that’s for sure, you can see for yourself.

Daily prompts  from Putting My Feet In The Dirt Today I wrote from 23:37 to 23:47, just making it inside the 25th October! I was prompted by the words Greasy Grimy Chauffeur Guts

My other stuff is over on the Dead Deer Blog

Oct 25th Greasy Grimy Chauffeur Guts

19.36-19.46

“Where too now, Madam?”

It’s not the words themselves, but the way he says them. The little pause before the “madam”. The slight sneer. Every time. As if he’s better than all this. As if he’s better than me.

I didn’t ask for this. I’m quite capable of driving myself around, but no. It comes with the job. It comes with the position. A driver. A chauffeur.

Chauffeur. A driver. From the French chauffer, to heat, and by extension, chauffeur. Stoker. Someone who stokes. The car I’m in doesn’t have a boiler, and there’s nothing to stoke but my ire. He’s my chauffeur.

“The office, please. Robert.”

I try to pause between “please” and “Robert”, but it never has the same effect.

He nods. Or tuts.

I can’t see from back here.

I can just see the back of his head, and that stupid cap, and his eyes in the mirror, watching me. I see him looking at me, sometimes. His eyes. They’re not on the road behind, they’re on me, and when I try to challenge him, to stare back, it’s always me that breaks off. Another victory. To him.

It’s a stipulation. I’m apparently too important to drive myself. It’s expected now, of my position.

‘You’ll like Robert,’ they said, ‘he’s very discreet.’

I don’t want discreet. I don’t even want a driver. Even if I did, even if I needed one, discretion wouldn’t be top of my list of essential characteristics. Ability to drive. That would be it.

Why does he have to wear a cap. That stupid, look at me cap, on top of a stupid, look at me uniform in a look at me car.

Polishing the wheels.

Who polishes wheels?

I hate him. I hate this. I hate his attitude, his arrogance, his conceitedness.

I hate his greasy, grimy, chauffeur guts.

This follows the daily prompts for a ten minute write from Putting My Feet In The Dirt The idea is to use the prompt and write for ten minutes only. Which is what I did, prompted by the words Greasy Grimy Chauffeur Guts