Nate got out of the car haphazardly parked on the edge of the shoulder where he had barely managed to careen when his car died again. He opened the hood, peered into the massive engine compartment’s depths and failed to see any particular problem. Sadly, there wasn’t a neon sign pointing to the broken part. He half expected a naughty gremlin to jump out and scurry away.

He pulled out his cell phone to search his recently called list. He didn’t have to look too far. There were twelve calls to and from Travis in the last two days. He dialed the number. One the fifth ring, Travis answered.

“Travis.”

“It’s Nate. She died again. Same symptoms as last time.”

“Can’t be. We replaced the part.”

“Well, whether it can or can’t be, I’m currently dead on the side of 95 by the car wash.”

“Huh.” There was a pause. “OK, I’ll send Johnson out there with the tower.”

Twenty-three minutes later, the kid pulled up and parked in front of him. “What’s the problem this time?” he said.

“Same as last time.”

“Can’t be. We replaced the part.”

Nate let out an exasperated sigh. “Well, try her for yourself.”

The kid gently slid behind the wheel and tried starting the car. It let out a rumbling guffaw and died a slow, painful death. “Huh. OK, we’ll get her back and take a look.”

Effortlessly, Johnson eased the chrome and steel, cherry red 1949 Cadillac Coupe DeVille into the stirrups and raised the front off the ground. He delicately slid his hand along her haunch and half to himself he said, “They just don’t make them like this anymore. She’s a beaut.” To Nate, he said, “Don’t worry. We’ll get Betsy right as rain.”

When they arrived at the garage, Travis had obviously cast aside the Toyota he had been working on to make room for Betsy in the garage front and center. He took on newer cars to eat, but his real love was the classics. He loved Betsy as much as Nate did and treated her like his own daughter.

“Well, Betsy, did you miss me that much?” Travis popped the hood and peered into its depths as Nate had done. “Start her up,” he said to Johnson. The car shuddered and let out a tremendous backfire like a wild horse kicking someone trying to put a lasso around its neck. “OK, turn her off.”

“Did you put any weird gas in her?”

“No, Travis, I haven’t had a chance to. It’s the same fuel that’s been in the tank since you had her yesterday.” Nate said defensively.

“OK, OK. Well, we’ll go over her again. Need a ride?”

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Flash Fiction 365 prompt: Can’t Be.