Joseph Hurtgen
Sinkholes don’t care about Corvettes or anything else. And we live in a land of sinkholes, depressions, dark, unknown wonders of the natural world. Some of the Louisville Zoo fell into a sinkhole a few years ago. Maybe the animals would have been happier down there, like Corvettes finally free of the showroom, shown endless room in the smooth limestone interior of the underground. You can’t see anything down there, unless maybe you sit in the black leather interior of a crumpled classic Vette, rev the engine, switch on the brights.
All the caves and sinkholes of Kentucky are lonely for cars, for Corvettes, for the breathless speed of the automobile. And the Corvettes, the many Corvettes lost to sinkholes, are lonely for people. Come to the caves then! Find your dream car! I found an old still and a Ferrari F40 in a cave behind my house. I drank and felt dynamite in my veins, so I dynamited a sheer limestone wall and found another cave, this one covered in posters of fast cars, and a road cutting through, an open road without people on it, with no threat of ice or springing deer. I sped along the underground road at frightening speeds, sometimes swerving to avoid the stalactites. Damn stalactites!
I drove to the very center of the Earth. It’s hot down there, as hot as a classic car, flame decals licking both sides. The center of the Earth is a solid core of iron. Cars are made out of iron. Or they were. The iron cars of yesteryear are raining into sinkholes, denting the sinkholes, not the iron cars. I don’t give a shit about iron cars, but they can really move through the underground byways and turnpikes, and they look good doing it.
I knew a guy whose life turned into a sinkhole. He started doing a lot of downers and sunk right into the earth. He found a Polo White EX-122 and sped off through the darkness, never looked back.
