The Undercarriage

Brian McVety

Zachary counted the change that he found under the passenger seat of his navy colored Volvo station wagon. The coins were sticky, having lost their shine long ago: two quarters, two dimes, a nickel, and three pennies

“Another seventy-eight cents!” he yelled over the whir of the vacuum. “We’re up to twofourteen!”

He added the coins to the others in the back pocket of his jeans.

Debbie continued to dig the circular nozzle into the crevice of the driver’s seat. Her curly brown hair fell across her face as she worked. She had bought him the Shop-Vac, upgraded horsepower and all, last June. She yelled back to her husband over its whir. “How is it that you can get french fries stuck under a seat you’re sitting in? There’s no way this would happen if you ate one at a time!” Zachary continued to dig under the passenger’s seat. “I mean isn’t this physically impossible? Wouldn’t you have to place them there or something? The vacuum can’t even suck ‘em up!” his wife yelled to the cracked leather of the seat. She kept her head down, struggling to suck up the last french fry with the nozzle instead of scooping it up with her fingers, as if that thought had never crossed her mind.

“Another dime!” Zachary chirped. “And since when are you eating french fries in the car anyway? Shouldn’t I know about this?

What about your cholesterol?” Zachary flipped over the small mat behind the passenger’s seat, revealing two more pennies.

“Two forty-one. Enough for a venti from The Bucks!”

Debbie shifted to the floor, digging the vacuum hose into the once beige carpet under steering wheel. She struggled to capture the tiny pebbles that seemed to jump each time she moved the nozzle. Sometimes, the vacuum stuck to the carpet, like it was trying to consume too much, the whir growing louder.

“And I know the driveway gets muddy when it rains, but it hasn’t rained in weeks. Where does all of this dirt come from? Don’t you ever knock off your feet before getting in?”

“Deb, this is a buffalo nickel! Do you think it’s worth more?”

Debbie leaned down, working the nozzle under the pedals, the hose of the vacuum stretching straight. A small patch of skin on of her lower back became exposed, along with the top of her worn, cotton underwear, which rode up past her jeans. Two wheels under the vacuum’s base lifted off the ground. It seemed Sometimes, the vacuum stuck to the carpet, like it was trying to consume too much, the whir growing louder.

as if the whole thing would topple over at any moment.

“When was the last time we cleaned this anyway?” she asked the steering wheel. Zachary continued to hunt for change on the floor. He found another quarter lodged behind the safety belt bolt and wiped off the filth that clung to the coins on his pant leg, before adding it to the collection in his pocket.

“Almost at three dollars!” he yelled over the whir.

He moved back to behind the driver’s seat to see if there was any he had missed. To balance himself, he put his hand on the middle of the backseat, his fingers finding the spots where the leather was still indented, like carpet when furniture is moved for the first time in a long time. He couldn’t entirely see under the seat, so he reached under blindly, feeling the grit and grunge of the seat’s undercarriage.

Debbie inspected under the pedals before turning back towards the driver’s seat one last time. She stuck the hose under the seat, just to make sure nothing was missed.

The nozzle found it the same time Zachary’s hand did. The vacuum roared, as if deprived of air.

“Deb, hold on!” “Zach, what’s stuck?” The rubbery texture was unmistakable. Zachary pushed it in with his thumb, recognizing the undeniable pliability of a pacifier, his fingers sticky with grime. He didn’t have to look to know that the hard plastic was bright blue with yellow stars. The vacuum did everything in its power to suck it down. Zachary pried the pacifier loose, but did not wipe it off, didn’t even look at it. He shoved it in with the change in his pocket. The sound of the vacuum suddenly ceased.

“What was it stuck on?” Debbie asked her husband, as she started to rap the hose around the base of the circular vacuum.

“Nothing, don’t worry about it,” he said choking back a sob, “must have been part of the undercarriage.”