Sparks – Nick Dove
June 3, 2025
Dingo said sparks flew when he saw her.
They were in NoHo at sundown, in some dusty parking lot, amidst the tents and trailers and well-clear of anyone who actually paid taxes.
He’d gone there to meet Crash, or Ham, or some other lowlife looking for a high.
She’d gone there with her man, who’d been fiending for the same.
He was yelling at her for smoking, but he’d driven her there. The dope would make him a real terror, and whenever his mind left him, it was her body that bore the consequences.
Even from a hundred yards away Dingo’d recognized his abuse; there was no hiding the brown spots on her back, nor the bloodstains on her top. The injustice infuriated him, and ever the savior, he wandered over to confront the man over her maltreatment.
The man, musclebound and guidotanned, turned and shot him a one-eyed stare. “Ain’t me,” he spat, then smacked her across the side and loogeyed the ground. “She been like this.”
The strike struck Dingo just as hard. She was a wreck, but seen close, her harsh exterior wilted and laid bare her inner nature. There was beauty in her brokenness, a charm that captured his soul and snared his senses. She might’ve smelled of devil’s lettuce, but to him it seemed like angel’s lilac. He wanted her, and bad. Before the man could land another blow, Dingo caught his hand and poured out his feelings.
He told him to stop, and that he’d take her. That she didn’t deserve to be treated this way, and that he’d love her more and better. That he’d make her purr. That he’d bring her up and down the coast, and would do anything for her. Dingo said the sort’ve shit that gets your shit kicked-in and your teeth knocked out — especially when you look like a commie Ozzy Osbourne, and you’re talking to one of the Valley’s finest.
The man’s teeth gritted and hands clenched. The jibes provoked a rage in him. He wanted vindication, to rebuke Dingo’s charges by violence. His jaw pulsing, he yearned to smash his longhaired accoster through his skull. But the man stayed sane, and in the fury of Dingo’s face, saw an opportunity, a chance for both to get what they want. Restraining himself, no fists flew, and no battle was fought for her being. After enough reprisal, the man finally spoke, and made Dingo an offer.
“Ya really want a girl like her?” he asked.
Dingo, taken aback by the calm in his voice, nodded fiercely.
“Alright — 2 grand, cash, and she’s your problem. Just don’t come crying to me when she don’t change and you can’t fix her.”
Not needing to think twice, Dingo hopped to an ATM and emptied his bank account. When he returned, he gave over the green and rode off into the orange haze with his new beloved.
That next week, Dingo spent every moment with her. He couldn’t bear to separate from her, not once, not even at the supermarket. One night, tears welling, he confessed to me that he’d never been as happy as the first time he was inside her. I believed him. I’d only seen pictures, but she was fucking jaw-dropping. I wanted her, too.
When we finally got some time together, I asked Dingo if I could take her for a ride. I was nervous; I knew he’d be apprehensive, but we’d shared before. I put one arm on his shoulder and locked our eyes. In mine, he knew that no wouldn’t mean no.
“Just be gentle,” he said, then tossed me the keys.
And so began our love affair, our great vehicular menage-a-trois with his new ‘06 Ford Crown Vic.