I wake up to the sound of my car turning on. “Crap.” I rush to the bedroom window and press my forehead against the glass, looking out at where my car should be. The streetlamp outside is illuminating my parking space with a perfect, orange glow, but my car is nowhere to be seen. I shove my feet into my slippers and run outside.
I look around frantically. God help me. “Hello?”
“Vroom,” I hear from somewhere nearby. I sneak towards the noise, fists loose but ready to form at a moment’s notice. I wish that I’d put on some kind of pyjama top before coming outside.
“Oh, yeah.” I see beams of red and white light, as if traffic is backing up around the corner. “You feel great.”
“Who’s there?” I whisper.
“Harder.” A car horn bursts forth into the night, making me flinch as if I’ve been shot at. I think about going back inside and hiding under my covers, where it’s safe, but I can’t. That’s my car’s horn.
“You’re dry. You need some lube,” someone says, in a voice that is unnaturally intoned, like a Satnav.
“I’ll let my Dad know.”
“Wh-What’s going on here?!” I cry when I see the spectacle in front of me. My car is being mounted by another, slightly smaller car. Impossibly, there is nobody driving either vehicle.
“D-dammit Dad,” my car laments, sounding also like a Satnav. “What are you doing?”
The other car sniggers. “Busted…”
I take off my slipper and whack the car that has climbed up the back of my own. Has it left scratch marks? “Bad car! Stop!” It reverses, landing on all four of its own wheels with a thump.
“Dad,” my car whines.
I don’t know what to say. “I’m not your Dad!” I must be dreaming.
“You’re my dad,” the other car says to mine, seductively, “Daddy.”
My car’s brake lights flash momentarily and it wiggles its boot. “Daddy, huh?” It backs up.
“Stop it!” I beat my car with my slipper. “Get home now, son.”
“What did you call me?” my car says, hopefully.
I blush. “Nothing.”
“But Dad,” it says.
“I’m not your Dad!”
“You’re so cruel!” it shouts at me as it drives away to its parking spot.
“And you,” I say to the other car. “You. You keep away.”
“You need to take better care of your son.”
“He’s not my son!” I shout back. The strange car doesn’t listen to me, however. It turns a corner and disappears from sight. I slide my slipper back on and approach my car. Its windscreen is wet. It seems to be sobbing. I sigh. “There, there.” I say, patting its front like a crazy person. It cries louder. It’s gonna wake up the whole neighbourhood at this rate. “It’s ok.” I swallow. “Son.”
It stops sobbing so hard. “Son?”
“Sure,” I say. Its windscreen wipers activate. “Don’t worry.”
It sniffles. “L-love you, Dad.”
God help me. “I, um, love you too. Son.”