Of course they do, and here's why I know this.

I hit the streets at six a.m. The early hour is important. It gives me quiet time, mental foraging time. Any later and I'd be dodging kids swarming off to summer school and adults drizzling off to work, dogs jerking sleepy owners off to the happy dumping ground, and crazed drivers, knuckles white on steering wheels and spit dribbling from the corner of their turned down mouths, careening off to God knows where. But at six it's mostly quiet and my mind can forage.

Two days earlier I'd seen Who Killed the Electric Car, a neat movie about really nice people who loved their cute electric cars that the big bad auto companies took away and smashed to smithereens. I cried along with their owners as the broken little car bodies got fed screaming into the shredder. Those cars felt love and they felt pain.

So, I wonder, power walking along at a good clip, what about all these cars along West End Avenue and Riverside? Do they feel love? Do they feel pain? One thing for sure, they certainly are loyal, sitting here night after night waiting for their owners who don't seem to realize these metallic beauties aren't emotionally bankrupt objects that can be cast aside and be expected to come running at the crook of a finger.

And yet they wait, some like glittering cotillion debutantes ready to be swept onto the floor, to strut their stuff, to prove their superiority to the rest of the world; others like faithful servants to do their flawed masters' biddings. The black Mercedes, whose clothing costs more and accessories shine brighter than the green Honda's immediately behind, can't wait to shake her booty. What about the silver Ford with the dented fender who shyly leans against the far curb? You just know she's heard things tender ears shouldn't have heard, and everyone can see she's been abused. The binge-eating Hummer isn't shy, throwing her ample hips around and telling the world she isn't at all concerned her hoity-toity dress looks like a big brown tent.

The Olds is older, not just by a few years, but she has a dignity the younger ones lack. Her dress certainly isn't new, but it's been cared for, loved even, and though she sits proudly, she knows she will be last chosen if at all. And yet she waits. I want to touch her, to tell her it's OK, but I fear she may become startled and cry out.

A cab, dirty and missing its hubcaps, clinks past, a hussy, trying to catch an eye. Disgusting! The others laugh and shout, "Hey you in the hideous dress, you don't belong here. Please leave, now, and don't you dare try to lure anyone into coming with you. They're not your type, if you even have a type." More laughter.

The haughty Beemer, a 330Ci, sits apart. "She thinks she owns the street," the others say. "She thinks all she needs to do is snap her fingers and the world will come running." A blue Maxima says, "What she needs is a good dollop of pigeon poop right in the middle of her smug face; that will teach her." The others giggle, but sadly; for they seem to know that pigeons don't poop on Beemers.

A garbage truck sits at the intersection like a giant cockroach feasting on morning garbage. It grows quiet and waits. The red Nissan stares. Tension is building. Who will be first? Who will get to strut off, leaving the rest in a wake of essence of Exxon, an I'm better than you' look plastered across her face that the rest want to run up and punch.

Uh oh. Here it is. The moment of truth. The guy in 420A is coming out. The green Jag stiffens and throws out her breasts. "Such a tart," some whisper. "If he only knew." But she's the one he wants and heads straight for her. She embraces him and begins to purr, then snarls at the others as she pulls away, wiggling and flashing her rear in a haughty way. "Bitch," the others say. The Beemer starts to throw around a lot of attitude.

The garbage truck shrugs and heads south, some say filling the air with a horrible stench, but in reality, it is the cars passing gasairing their feelings.