Park Your Car

A corpulent suburbanite and his scrawny sidekick Harry, drunk on the promise of petrol-fueled autonomy, barter hard-won coins for a decrepit Tin Lizzie whose rusted hide shivers like a consumptive poet. No sooner do the men parade this wheeled cadaver before their beaming wives than the contraption sheds doors, fenders, and dignity, leaving only the license plate clinging like a cynical smirk. Harry, equal parts Icarus and Buster Keaton, launches the skeletal coupe through privet hedges, brick walls, a funeral procession, and a gentleman’s bath—ceramic tub and bather intact—until the final splintering crash converts ambition into scrap and marital bliss into a mutual oath of automotive abstinence.