Morning story

A Schizophrenic Man lived in my Oldsmobile. I asked him why he lived in my car, and not someplace else. He grabbed my arm and said, "Did you hear that?" but the engine sounded fine to me. He was always waiting for me in my front seat. He was nervous, and picked at the tires until they frayed. One day, after I drove off the elevator of the parking garage, he was being held by two traffic police. I had to give them 29 cents of spange to set him free. I reproached him, and told him that someday he would have to find another car. "No rush," I said, "but it's better to start looking early." I asked him what his name was, anyway. "Karter Colby." I brightened up and said, "What a coincidence, my middle name is Colby."
Eventually the tires became so frayed that they blew out. The Schizophrenic Man and my son's Little League Coach, who had been very strict and misunderstood, died in the accident.
Not true. I actually abandoned the car in Baltimore. But that's not entirely true either. It actually broke down in Fell's Point, and the Blind took it. I wondered if one of them had held its trunk and said, "It's a snake," while another touched its tire and said, "No, it's a tree."
It was a big car.