Grease Monkey   “Just don’t let nothin scream,” he says and hands me back my keys, a little tentative, as if to say, “Oh sure, but can you drive it?” Check or charge, it’s all the same — the man doesn’t even care. At first, the car seems strange as I head for home, minding the things he told me — I barely let the engine sing, I think about suffering, about screaming — I baby the clutch, brush the brakes, sip the gas, progress noiselessly through the gears — I never really go home at all.                                                 Years later, same car, same old dog. We take trips through the dark, into the forest, where he cocks his ears at things I can’t even see.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont January 2012