The others were bald enough to show the canvas cording. It looked as if someone had worked on the upholstery with a knife. The back bumper was askew, the trunk-lid was ajar, and upholstery was bleeding out through several long tears in the seat covers, both front and back. The right rear deck was bashed in, and an ugly nest of rust had grown in the paint-scraped valley. The left side of her windshield was a snarled spiderweb of cracks. She was a bad joke, and what Arnie saw in her that day I’ll never know. I went back, thinking that it was maybe one of Arnie’s subtle little jokes. His eyes were bulging from behind his steel-rimmed glasses, he had plastered one hand over his face so that his palm was partially cupping his mouth, and his neck could have been on ball-bearings the way he was craning back over his shoulder. “Oh my God!” my friend Arnie Cunningham cried out suddenly.
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