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Welcome to Six Minute Stories, where you hear the writing of new voices and experienced writers whose submissions appear in the anthologies of the Personal Story Publishing Project. In our new season, you will hear stories from our 13th collection. Free find links to 6 minute stories and to the Personal Story publishing project@randalljones.com
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everybody loves a good story.
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We hope you enjoy this one.
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The green roach by A.A. krombach Conventional wisdom says a typical American youth experiences three great leaps of freedom when the toddler first gathers his two feet under him and flees his mother's grasp when a new bicycle grants him access to speed, distance, and danger and when he buys his first car. Opening a world of independence and possibilities, the Green Roach granted me that liberation. A huge paper mill employed thousands in our central Florida town. Workers there knew the chemical atmosphere enveloping the mill and its parking lot would eat the paint off their family cars. So they adopted the cheapest, most marginally dependable vehicles they could find to commute to their jobs, collectively called mill cars. Mill cars whose owners found them too corroded and corrupted for even that modest duty formed a pool of basic transportation options for teenagers with limited incomes and a craving for wheels. Any wheels. The Green Roach came to me via that path, a 1955 Chevy Nomad station wagon. Her faded chalky green body panels and acid etched roof and hood left no doubt as to her ancestry. Even before I'd laid hands on her, she'd endured the ownership of multiple teen drivers. One of them had crumpled her right front fender, straightened it with a few kicks, and glued in its headlight with body putty. The Green Roach was professionally lettered in Furtura, bold italic white with a black shadow on the fender behind the front left wheel well. Not a name I would have chosen, but everyone knows it's bad luck to rename a boat after it's christened. I was not one to tempt fate. If her exterior lacked respectability, her interior sealed the deal. The sagging front bench seat was upholstered in duct tape. Under it, a beefy faucet handle, when twisted, diverted engine noise and fumes from the muffler to a sewer pipe below the driver's door for passenger accommodation, an adolescent's dream. A naked mattress stuffed the space from the tailgate to just behind the front seat. Above it, the dome light glowed suggestively red when lit. If that wasn't mood setting enough, a fat candle stuck to the inside of the glove compartment door awaited. Intellectually, at least, I understood what the Green Roach's interior decorator had intended But I was far from ready for that kind of involvement. On the rare occasion when I convinced a girl to go out with me, I was astute enough to borrow the family sedan. The Green Roach's reputation preceded it. Our town wasn't large, and the sight of it in my date's driveway would have kindled parental nightmares. To paraphrase Canadian philosopher Red Green, if the people don't find you handsome, they should at least find you handy. And while the car's plushy potential for seduction went untapped, it had its practical uses, drawing me into a social life I'd have otherwise shunned. The mattress cradled sousaphones on the way to marching band practice. It secured amplifiers and guitars, headed from garage band headquarters to gigs at Teen Town. On weekends, the wagon chugged 30 miles to the beach with a surfboard or two inside. On the same route at night, the Roach carried the makings of Bonfire Purple Jesus Punch on the outbound leg. On the return trips with me as designated driver, it cushioned semi conscious companions curled up like hibernating squirrels. The Green Roach and I became a 1960s version of Uber. As Proust wrote, above the world of necessity, there is a world of freedom. She put family feuds in her cockeyed rear view mirror. Buoyed by a fresh set of used tires from Pappy's Friendly service station, the Green Roach yanked me out of the ordinary, that swimmable sinkhole hidden in the depths of the national forest. Doubters claimed you needed a jeep to get there. We proved them wrong. Rocket launch at the Cape. She made it down there on only two extra quarts of oil. I napped in the back when the Mercury Atlas stayed on the ground aimlessly. We'd cruise empty roads until midnight while the Roaches AM radio downloaded Delta Blues from WLAC Nashville. But the Green Roaches days with me were numbered. College loomed ahead. I determined to drive up there a few weeks early to get an advanced look in place. Early one morning the Roach and I set out on the 200 mile drive. We were much less than halfway when she spoke to me. If you turn around now, I'll get you home, she croaked. I can promise no more than that. I had Bought her for $100 and sold her for $100. Cared for her like a puppy. In return, she had set me free with the confidence to stand on my own two feet. Copyright 2026 AA Krombach Alfred Krombach lives in Lake Como, Florida. He's a veteran of more than 30 years as a reporter editor and manager in the newspaper industry, where he earned multiple awards in all facets of journalism. He's also done lengthy stints in Air Force Intelligence and as a professional musician. He attends the Ancient city writers of St. Augustine, Florida. His recent self published mystery novel, Our lady of the Glass, is a available on Amazon. A sequel is underway.
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Thank you for listening to another six minute story. You can read them all in the 13 anthologies of the Personal Story Publishing Project. Find the link to our online store@randalljones.com
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that's R A N D E L
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L jones.com There you can listen to over 500 stories shared through 13 seasons of our 6 Minute Stories podcast. And remember, everybody loves a good story.