My eyes were blurry and beginning to water as I sat for my third consecutive hour staring at car ads on the computer. I hadn't seen anything yet that had struck my fancy, and was beginning to get frustrated. Perhaps fancy was the wrong word. They were all too expensive or too expensive to fix up. I didn't mind a little bit of a fixer upper, I had budgeted for that, but seriously, who asks a thousand bucks for a car without an engine? I'm in high school for Christ's sake.

I sighed and rubbed my eyes, blinking and trying to bring the screen back into view. An ad I had overlooked before caught my eye. Old Chevy. $1000. "Well that's ambiguous." I read through a few more ads before coming back to the Old Chevy. "Oh well, nothing ventured, nothing gained." I said out loud, and dialed the number.

I spoke to an older woman, who said she didn't know anything about the car, but did remember it was a Chevy. I decided to go take a look. Like I said, nothing ventured, nothing gained. After all, it might be in a decent shape. I called my best friend, Shawn, for a ride, and after promising to help him sneak out for a party next weekend, (that he hadn't been invited to, by the way, and probably would be kicked out of) he offered up his services. The place was on the outskirts of town, about half an hour away. It was an area filled with old farms, and rundown homestead houses.

A little trepidation ran through me when we pulled into the drive way. It looked like the place may have been a running farm fifty years ago. The house was small, with a rap around porch and chipped gray paint that had probably been white when it was first applied. There was an old rusty tracker off to the side of the barn, which was old and weathered from years of neglect. I couldn't help but chuckle at the random chickens that pecked the ground, and the old dog that limped around with a glazed over eye.

"Dude?" Shawn's chuckle matched mine. "This does not bode well."

"Well, let's look anyway. We're here now." Even though I was determined to look at this Old Chevy, I couldn't help but agree with Shawn's statement. An image of the old Ford Tempo my older sister, Stephanie had purchased two years earlier, came to mind. It was blue, with a black hood, and rusted bumpers. Yes, both bumpers were rusted and both bumpers were held onto that car with duck tape. But that wasn't the best part. No, the best part was the passenger side back door. The back door that would swing open whenever you took a turn to sharp. Thank God for seat belts.

The old woman was nice enough. A little hunched and slow in her movements. She carried a small gray oxygen tank on her hip, and shuffled us towards the barn. "Two men left it here about five years ago." She began. "Gave me $100 to hold it for them until they came back, and said if they weren't back in a year to find it a good home. Well they never came back and I forgot about it. But I'm selling the place and need to get rid of everything. If you see anything else you like, it's all for sale." She rambled on a bit longer about taxes, old age and her grand kids wanting her to go into a nursing home. "Bastards." She mumbled under her breath.

We opened the doors of the barn, which creaked loudly and flung years of dust into the air, making us cough and our eyes water. We were immediately hit with a smell of must, mildew and chickens. "Oh, this is bad." I thought. The woman pointed to a green army tarp in the back of the barn. I shrugged at Shawn, and then yanked it off. Our reactions couldn't have been more different. Shawn grimaced. Disgusted with the dirty old car, covered in mud, and showing signs of rust, where years of the damp barn had taken its toll. There were a few dents, the chrome was tarnished and the interior leather was worn and cracked.

Where as Shawn gave an audible groan, I stood in awe. My breath hitched. I mean, seriously hitched. I had only ever had that happen one other time, and it wasn't because of a girl. It had been nearly a year ago, and for the exact same reason it hitched today.

It had been a Fourth of July fair and a classic car show. I didn't usually attend car shows. I simply was not a "car guy". I didn't generally find cars all that interesting. But there was a concert I wanted to attend a few hours later, and after rides, games, and indigestion, figured I'd kill some of it eying other peoples waste of money. I strolled through the lanes of cars, cringing at some, but admiring others. I could appreciate a beautiful paint job, and I could appreciate style. Cars use to have style. I remember thinking how they all looked alike now. Over all, I wasn't impressed, but I could have spent my time doing worse things.

Then I saw it. It was a thing of beauty. So simple but elegant. No fancy paint job or decorative rims. Just black and chrome staring forward, challenging. I got the impression that the car was standing with its arms crossed, nodding its head and saying, "Bring it." I, honest to God, felt a stirring in my groin, and my breath, did indeed, hitch. I wiped at my mouth, which was suddenly too dry, and damp at the same time. I had to force myself to breath. This car was seriously HOT! I was overcome with the urge to sit in the front seat and run my fingers over the steering wheel and breathe in the scent of leather and motor oil, because I was convinced that is how it would smell.

I noticed a stocky man in a Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and aviators sitting nonchalantly in a yellow and white beach chair. I stalked over to him, much more aggressively than I intended to this car, and this middle aged joker who in the way of my desperate need to lay some sort of claim to it. The man jolted at my abrupt approach. "Tell me about this car." I demanded. After the look of shock faded from his face, Albert Combs, as I would learn his name was, smirked, raised himself from his seat and said, arms crossed mimicking the attitude of his automobile, "Let me tell you about this car."

From that moment on, I had been obsessed. Secretly obsessed, mind you. But still obsessed. I didn't want my friends to know I was jonesing after a car. My click was more of a Magic Cards & D&D type. The idea of drooling over a muscle car drudged up images of wife beater clad, mullet headed hair band junkies, and honestly I had enough problems enduring torment for predilection for larping. The last thing I needed was to be relentlessly teased by my own circle of friends. So in secret, the wallpaper on my computer became this car. I stuffed a picture in my desk drawer, and written across my Black and Chrome Beauty were the words, "mine mine mine". I was determined and convinced. "It will be mine."

So at that moment, in that smelly barn, staring at this seriously abused car, I didn't care that I was a nerd. I didn't care that I was going to spend more than budgeted to fix it up. I didn't care that Shawn was tugging on my shirt trying to pull me away from, what he had all ready decided, was the worst mistake of my young life. My mind reeled with mine mine mine. I ran my hand over the hood of the mistreated steel. My poor beauty, whose twin had stood confident and self assured, was withering away. A poor imitation of her former glory, and yes, right then and there I knew she was a girl. Without a word, I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my wallet. Opening it, I pulled out the ten, one hundred dollar bills, and counted them over to the lady, feeling guilty, knowing that even in its current state this car was worth ten times that.

I slid behind the wheel rubbing my hands over the steering wheel, just as I had envisioned that Fourth of July. Behind the lingering stench of mildew and chickens, she smelled just as I had envisioned. The scent of leather and oil and something else. I closed my eyes and breathed in heavily through my nose, searching my memory for that aroma. Old Spice. I could feel a smile nudge at my lips at the recognition.

I placed the key in the ignition and turned. Nothing. Not even an attempt to turn over. I didn't care. "Dude, you can't be serious." Shawn said. "I mean it man. You have no idea what you're getting here. It wont even start, and even if it does, Dude, the gas mileage. Its a tank man, is there even enough gas in the world to get it started. The size a lone, Nick. I don't think they make parking spots this big anymore."

I just smiled at him, certain that my glee was radiating off of me like a frickin' nuclear bomb. "I know exactly what I'm getting, Shawn. This... this..." I ran a hand over the hood, then, over come with a need to demonstrate the affection that was already forming between me and my beloved, kissed my finger tips, and touched them down. "This is a 1967 Chevy Impala. The most beautiful car ever created. And it's MINE." Shawn just shook his head, and helped me chain my Black Beauty to his Dodge Intrepid. He didn't get it. Not yet. But once I had her up and running, and mint cherry; Shawn would come around. How could he not. She was flippin' fantastic.

Please Review. Helps me do better next time.