May 9th, 2026
There’s just a bare brown spot on the ground where the Lucerne was once parked. That car sat there for sixteen months. It never started and never moved. It sat there like a huge yard ornament, sometimes roasting in the sun, and sometimes covered with ice and snow. I’ve seen other abandoned vehicles rotting in other yards, especially out in the country, but eventually they just become part of the landscape, memorials to ravages of time and the ephemeral nature of manmade objects. This car was an eyesore for me the entire time it was on our property. It upset me every time I looked at it.
The Buick was not actually a bad looking car. It was old and used, but still quite stylish, when the young woman originally bought it. However, each time I saw it in the yard, I was overcome by a rush of ugly memories. There was a smashed rear window with bits of broken glass on the seat. The woman had somehow lost track of her vehicle for several days, and by the time she located it, someone had used a brick to break into it and steal whatever there was of value inside. For months the car was full of trash. She never cleaned it out. The handle on the inside of the driver’s door was broken. How that happened I have no idea. The Lucerne found its home on our property after the young woman ran into serious legal problems that precluded her from driving her car. Those issues have never been resolved so that she operate the vehicle. All in all, the Buick was a constant reminder of things that went bad in a big way.
The young woman had for a long time maintained the forlorn hope that she could get her license reinstated and drive again. So, she was never willing to sell her car. Months and months went by, and other issues took center stage in our lives. The Lucerne sat on the lawn and waited patiently for somebody to make a decision. A week or two ago, the woman learned that she would not be driving anything for at least a decade. She also learned that she would be physically absent for a couple years. It was at that point that she told me to get rid of her car. Easier said than done. Fortunately, she had the forethought to sign the title of the Buick before she became unavailable. That helped.
Now, a man who has the time, tools, parts, aptitude, and knowhow to fix a car could have repaired the Lucerne and sold it at a profit. I am not that man. I couldn’t even find the keys for the damn thing. I had them at one time, and I had put them away for safe keeping, but like most things in our home, they disappeared without a trace. Seiling the car was a fool’s errand. I couldn’t even start it without a key, and the odds were good that it would never start anyway.
I decided to give it away. There is a public radio station in our local area that accepts vehicle donations. I was good with giving them the Buick. They offered to pick it up free of charge, and that was all I really wanted. Just get it out of my yard and my life.
The donation process turned out to be more complicated than advertised. It always seems to be that way. I never actually spoke with anyone from the radio station. They had another organization that dealt solely with people giving away vehicles. I had a long phone conversation with a lady about the Buick. I explained in detail the situation. I told her that I was not the owner, but that I had a signed title and permission to dispose of the vehicle. I enumerated the many problems with the car. I emphasized that the Lucerne would not start and that I had no keys for it. She still wanted the Buick.
The donation organization worked with another company that did the pickup. I had another long talk with a representative from that broker. She set up a pickup time and her driver showed up at our house with a long trailer that already had two cars on it. I pointed out the Lucerne to him.
He asked me in broken English,
“The car, she start?”
“No.”
“You have keys?”, and he made a hand motion like he was turning a key in an ignition.
“NO, I don’t have keys.”
“No keys?” and shook his head.
He got into the Buick and, after a quick inspection, decided to call his dispatcher. They had a long and enthusiastic discussion in a Slavic language that I don’t understand. He handed me his phone, and I talked with the lady in English. She told me that she would have to talk with their broker, and they might need a winch or a forklift or something to drag the Buick out of our yard. I told her, “Fine, do whatever you got to do.”
The next morning, I got a call from the dispatcher. She was going to send a guy with a winch. He had another pickup in Chicago before he could come to my house. His ETA was maybe 8:00 PM. Whatever. Just get the damn thing.
At 8:15 the new driver showed up with a massive pickup truck and a long, low trailer attached to it. The trailer had a winch. The sun had already set, and it was twilight. He looked at the Lucerne doubtfully. A rear wheel was partially sunk into the ground. He asked me,
“This car, how long it is sitting here?”
Note: English was not his first language and probably not even his second.
I told him, “Sixteen months.”
He raised his eyebrows and said, “Sixteen?”
Then he went to work. He managed to make several sharp turns and jackknife the trailer over a ditch and across our driveway to get it lined up with the car. I was impressed. He knew how to maneuver his rig even in the dark, and it was getting dark. Stars were coming out.
The next hour was frustrating for the driver. It was extremely difficult for him to get the Buick lined up exactly right to winch up the ramps and on to the trailer. The fact that the car had a flat tire probably didn’t help at all. He made repeated adjustments and always found out that he was still a couple inches off. It was getting cold and the guy put on his jacket. He lit up a cigarette and stood on the trailer lost in thought. I could see the end of his cancer stick glow red in the gloom as he took a deep drag off it.
I felt a deep compassion for the guy. I used to work long shifts at work, and without fail, the hardest job was the last one. This driver was tired, cold, and pissed off. I know that feeling well. He just wanted to load up the car and go home.
He made a few more tweaks and finally got the Lucerne up the ramps. He secured the vehicle and then tossed his equipment into his pickup. I went inside the house for the title.
He came up to me and asked, “You got title?”
“Yeah. Here it is, all signed.”
He took it and said, “Good.”
Then I reached for my wallet and handed him three twenty-dollar bills.
“Here. This is for you. Thanks for working so hard.”
His hands were greasy, so he gave me a fist bump and thanked me.
He walked to his truck, lit up again. Then he made some careful turns to avoid hitting my mailbox. He pulled away.
It’s finally gone.
Frank is Emptiness 