The Sideways Sedan

Arthur, a man whose emotional range was often compared to a beige paint swatch, found himself in a predicament. His venerable sedan, Bartholomew, a vehicle he’d owned since the concept of ‘integrated cup holders’ was considered cutting-edge, had developed a distinct preference for sideways travel. This Tuesday morning, halfway to the quarterly audit of particularly uninteresting spreadsheets, Bartholomew emitted a wheeze, a click, and then, with the decisive thunk of a committed philosopher, began to crab-walk directly into the azalea bush of Mrs. Henderson.

Arthur leaned forward, adjusted his spectacles, and tapped the dashboard. 'Bartholomew,' he stated, his voice as flat as a discarded pancake, 'we are not on the road to interpretive dance class.' Bartholomew responded by nudging a garden gnome. A passing jogger, mid-stride, stumbled, doing a triple-take at the sight of a beige sedan gracefully redecorating a suburban lawn.

Arthur, without turning, simply stated, 'He's exploring his options. Always been a bit of an individualist, Bartholomew has.' He then calmly retrieved his briefcase from the passenger seat, stepped out, and locked the door. 'I suppose I'll walk,' he murmured to himself, surveying Bartholomew, who now appeared to be contemplating the existential implications of a plastic flamingo. 'And perhaps acquire a bicycle. One that grasps the fundamental principles of 'point A to point B' without embarking on a spiritual journey.'