Jeep Wranglers as far as the eye could see. Green and dark and brooding, lined up one by one, like a parking lot for war, or the cliched set of some awful Tom Hanks movie. I'm thinking there was netting and guns, I'm sure there were rooms and sales invoices.
The inventory list said mine was there, some where amongst the multitude. I hadn't seen it for several years, not since I sold it, to that cute Italian boy, Remy. Remy and I used to flirt on the occasions we met to discuss the car. The flirting stopped when he bought his mate, Chris.
OEL was the number plate, I ran around amongst the sleeping vehicles trying to find it. In and out of rooms, like a maze, all jam packed full of silent Jeeps, all the same. All green. Flipping covers and patches and tarps to view numbers plates that never were mine. Climbing over some to get to those at the back. Under and over, around and about, from room, to room; running boards and soft tops, some with bull bars, some not.
The light was yellow, constant sunset beyond where I could see.
Was there sirens? Were there search lights? Was I alone in my quest? There were shadows and camouflage and netting by the mile.
But OEL was not to be found.
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