Featured Author #1

I have written a few blogs about the writing community, but I think it is about time that I start introducing some of the amazing authors I have come across on my writing journey. ShuJen is part of a writing group that I am involved with. She is always taking classes or doing workshops to hone her skills and is our groups go-to person for any technical writing questions. I am honored to share her work on my blog and know you will enjoy this beautiful short story as much as I did. Read, listen, or both below, just don’t forget to bring a box of Kleenex.

That Yellow Oldsmobile

By ShuJen Walker Askew

My father’s yellow Oldsmobile gleamed in the sunlight as it flew up the street and entered the gate of Bay View apartment complex. It approached its designated parking space with ease and agility, like the smoothness of mother’s rice porridge. “Your pop’s ride is on hit,” my friends would say from the playground as I raced to greet him. At seven years old, I was the coolest kid on the block. I had a father in a fatherless community who rose above the first of the month high and never owned a city bus pass. He was a hard worker, and just like his new ride, dependable.

The seatbelt unbuckled and slid across my father’s slim frame, tapping his disco-ball-shaped afro as he exited the vehicle. “There’s my boy,” he’d say. A wide smile flashed across his face like the one he’d make after downing a plate of Mother’s homemade soy sauce pork chops. I’d smile back and greet him like a son would—with a playful punch. He’d punch back, and we’d take jabs at each other down the walkway to our apartment, door number seventeen.

That car, the embodiment of three jobs—swing shift, overtime, and weekends—was now the love of his life. Friday nights, he’d say, “I’m going on a date.” We’d find him in his car drinking beer, head bobbing to “Super Fly” by Curtis Mayfield. Saturday mornings, he’d rush out after breakfast, “Giving her a bath,” then come back hours later soaking wet. Sundays were family day. My father would pile us in his ride and drive through the wealthy neighborhoods, pointing out dream houses he intended to buy.

One day, on his way home from work, another car slammed into the back of him. My father suffered a mild heart attack and ended up in the hospital for several days.

He asked about his car.

We wanted him to recover.

He whined about his love.

We demanded he get better.

Once home, his eyes drooped at the dents, busted window, and missing bumper. He didn’t say a word, instead grabbed his red toolbox.

“What you doing?” Mother asked in her heavy accent. “We need a new car.”

With the insurance money, my father purchased another but refused to let the old one go. He called it his vehicle and the modern one hers. Once it was up and running, we continued our Sunday outings—that is, until the car broke down again, and Mother refused to ride in it, breaking the tradition.

Time went on, bringing a roller coaster of doctor’s appointments and car repair shop visits—highs and lows that eventually took their toll.

I was seventeen, sitting on the large green electrical box in front of the apartments, hanging out with friends. My father’s yellow Oldsmobile bounced down the road, humming and squeaking like an old beat-up washing machine.

I turned the volume up in my headphones, ignoring the eyesore until my father stumbled out of his vehicle.

“Are you okay?” I asked, and helped him to the house.

“I’m getting old,” he said, “just like my car.”

That night, in his car, I rushed him to the hospital. And that night, I returned home, in his car, alone.

The vehicle sat for months broke down and rejected, until one Saturday morning, I found myself standing at the side of his car, his red toolbox in hand. I knelt, inspecting the tires, the way he showed me how.

Author’s Bio

ShuJen Walker enjoys writing short stories in fantasy, sci-fi, and creative nonfiction. Her works can be seen in various anthologies at the local colleges and professional organizations. ShuJen is an Electrical Engineer by trade, mother of two, and enjoys writing.

The story That Yellow Oldsmobile is dedicated to my father whom I miss every day.