My 1973 yellow Camaro
Felt like sex.
Opening the door
I bent low
And slid into
Impossibly sweet
Black leather smelling
Just slightly sour
From good living
But mostly the fragrance
Intoxicated me.

In this car
Everything was low down.
I sat low.
The moulded seats
Held me there
As we took the corner;
The road pulled me down
Deeper into the black seat
As the turn was taken.
I was released
In the end
And we carried on
Down the road.

I smoked back then.
In my mind
I was both
Under the radar
And lit up-
Like Christmas
In poor taste.
My bad girl
Was very alive
And hungry.

That girl
Landed me in jail.
There was no way
I could even
Approach slow
In my yellow Camaro.
She had needs.
Fast was one.
I let her go;
Took the bit out
So her mouth was soft
And she went.

I had a cell
Quite to myself
But I could hear the drunks
Just over the wall.
I had my dress on
That I wore in court.
I ate American cheese
With the rest of them
For three days.
They jeered
When they heard me pee.
The lights never went off.

One morning
They came.
Their precious door
And ushering me
To the front gate.
That metal swung out
And I walked
Into the mist of
Too early
In the morning.

No one
I knew
Was awake.
So I walked.
Tasting freedom.
It was far sweeter
Than anything
My Camaro
Ever gave me.
I bought a used Fiat
But kept wearing the scent
Of that particularly fine
Sense of Freedom
That one time
Was mine.


-Cathy Aten 2014


3 Responses to “Camaro”

  1. Barry on May 29th, 2014

    Now that’s a damn fine story! One advantage of having had an EXTRA vigilant watchful mother, is that I learned EXTRA well how not to get caught when being BAD…….and I had a lot of practice.

  2. Irene Peake on June 15th, 2014

    My friend has a silver Corvette with red leather seats, the original “make-out” car…I sigh every time I see those seats!

  3. Dennis Chamberlain on August 14th, 2016

    I am riding right beside you through each twist and turn of this wonderfully illustrated story. The 1973 Camero was one of my favorite cars too. I am so glad you have these memories of pushing the envelope.

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