Prodigal Blues (3 page)

Perry's Used Cars:
 
We'll Pray You Make It Home
.

Despite the mechanic's dire assessment, I made it to Topeka and did what I'd gone there to do.
 
It took about as long as I'd expected, and after three days of dealing with redneck Kansas relatives I was more than ready for the comfortable, white-bread blandness of Ohio.
 
I packed up what was needed, said my goodbyes, got onto I-670 East, and had driven a couple of hundred miles toward home—almost far enough away from Topeka to allow myself to feel relief—when the engine made a sound somewhere between a screech and Godzilla's roar and did not so much stop as it did throw up its arms and say
Good-bye, cruel world!
 
Smoke and steam billowed from underneath the hood in heavy tendrils that quickly formed heavier clouds, filling the car with a strong, burnt, metallic odor.
 
I count myself lucky to have made it over to the emergency lane without hitting another vehicle.
 
I sat there for a few moments, promising myself I'd remain calm—I'd kept it together for the last three days, I could keep it together now—then began beating the steering wheel with my fists and screaming like a madman.
 
The car was singularly unimpressed.
 
I waited until the cloud thinned out, then tried starting the engine once more.
 
Every time I turned the key and pressed down on the gas pedal, the engine made its feelings known.

Click.
 
Fuck it.

Click.
 
Fuck it.

Click.
 
Fuck it.

The burnt metallic odor became stronger with each attempt.

I popped the hood and climbed out.
 
I had no idea what I thought I was going to do.
 
My ignorance of the inner-workings of automobiles can be summed up in one word:
 
profound.
 
I knew you filled their tanks with gas.
 
Changed the oil every three thousand miles.
 
Took them in for a wash once in a while.
 
Rotated the tires when you felt whimsical.

I was screwed.

I propped up the hood with that hood-propping-upper thingamajig and leaned in for a better look, coughing from the stench of burned metal.

I rubbed my face, then sighed.

No doubt about it.

None whatsoever.

It was definitely an engine.

I shook my head, cursing my wife for being right, yet again.
 
This was going to be good for at least two weeks' worth of well-deserved I-told-you-so's.
 
How many times since we'd gotten married had Tanya asked me to get a cell phone?
 
"I know you think they're just expensive pampered-yuppie toys, but some day you might be stuck out in the middle of nowhere and need help—
then
what are you going to do?"

"I'm a big boy who can take good-enough care of himself.
 
I'll think of something."

What I thought of was to kick the fender.

Which came loose.

Then fell off.

Onto my foot.

I was so screwed—no, wait, scratch that:
 
I was so far
beyond
screwed that it would have taken the
light
from screwed a thousand years to reach me.

Cars whizzed by.
 
I considered stepping out in front of one; the driver would either stop to help or splatter me from here to Indianapolis; either way, I'd be on the road again.

I rubbed my eyes, stretched, then leaned against the side of the car and watched the traffic.
 
I wondered where everyone was going.
 
They all seemed in such a hurry.
 
I waved at them.
 
Nobody even looked in my direction.

It's a real education to find yourself in a position to observe the sorts of cars that are still on the road.
 
I saw everything from rusty Corvettes to reconditioned Gremlins to BMWs to Pintos and something I swear was a Volkswagen "Thing" (anyone else remember those?); I counted fourteen station wagons—not SUVs, not minivans,
station wagons
, replete with
faux
wood paneling on the doors ala
The Mod Squad
; I saw a couple of electric cars (which I still maintain look like four-wheeled suppositories), dust-caked Cadillac convertibles, and Novas whose like hadn't been manufactured since Nixon resigned office; but the blue-ribbon prize went to an honest-to-God VW Microbus, circa 1969-70; it was painted bright silver and reflected the afternoon sunlight so intensely I couldn't look directly at it for more than a few seconds.
 

In case you don't happen to recall what this particular highway star looked like, the VW Microbus (incredibly popular in its day; immortalized by Arlo Guthrie in the song "Alice's Restaurant") had four doors—one on the driver's side, one on the passenger's side, and two side doors with directly opposing handles; neither of these doors slid open, mind you, they opened outward like a pair of metal wings.
 
Once inside you could relax in the comfort of the bucket seats in front and fold-down padded seats in the middle and rear.

I hadn't seen one of these in decades, which is why it caught my attention, but what made it
really
perfect was that this blindingly silver VW Microbus was hauling an equally-bright silver Airstream trailer; they looked like a pair of antique covered butter dishes making a run for it.

The VW slowed as it passed me, and for a moment I saw the passenger:
 
a little girl of perhaps nine or ten, with blonde hair, big eyes, and a killer smile.
 
She gave me a little wave, then was gone.

As I watched the twin butter dishes move onward, I noticed a break in the traffic from both directions.
 
For about two minutes I was standing beside a completely empty stretch of highway, and something about it struck me as funny at first—after all, it's usually during scenes like this in half-assed science fiction movies that a spaceship lands to set loose the intergalactic proctologists on the unsuspecting schmuck who's in a similar situation—but then it got eerie in a hurry, because I realized that at this moment, in this place, right now, this second, nobody—

—
nobody
knew where I was; not only that, but I had no way of
letting
anyone know.

If a mysterious Lovecraftian something-or-other was going to snatch me out of the world so my name could be listed along with those of Amelia Earhart, Jimmy Hoffa, and the guy who invented the water engine, this would be the time to do it.

Sounds silly now, but believe me, there wasn't a damn thing funny about it for those one-hundred-and-twenty seconds I was by myself out there.
 
Consider this:
 
how many times over the course of a week do you find yourself in transit from one place to another without anyone knowing exactly
where
you are for however long it takes to get from point "A" to point "B"?
 
You pop out for a pack of smokes and don't tell anyone; you run to the store for eggs or milk and don't leave a note; you head over to the Post Office to mail out some bills after the family's asleep.
 
Stop and really think about it—like I did during those two minutes—and you might be left a bit anxious by the total.
 
I figured there were about six hours (give or take) during any given week when I was not only alone (regardless of the size of your crew, janitorial work is mostly solitary), but completely out of reach with or from anyone (say, when moving between buildings).

The realization was, for me, anyway, incredibly creepy.

I was so relieved when cars started reappearing that I didn't mind their drivers ignoring me.
 
I promised myself to buy a cell phone as soon as I got home.
 
Tanya could gloat all she wanted.

I'd been standing there for about half an hour, resigned to spending the rest of my days in this very spot, when a Missouri State Trooper pulled over.

"Good morning," he said, approaching me slowly.
 
I could see his partner back in the cruiser talking into the radio microphone.

"Boy, am I glad you came by."
 
I read his name-tag—
L. Murphy
—and then saw my reflection in his mirrored sunglasses; even
I
thought I looked suspicious.

He gave the car a once-over and slowly shook his head.
 
"You be offended if I said I'm not surprised that this thing broke down on you?
 
Looks like—"
 
He leaned in for a closer look, then made a
hmph!
sound.
 
"—like a bad primer job, for one thing."
 
He scratched at a small section of paint.
 
It came right off, revealing the red underneath.
 
"We've be seeing a lot of this around here lately.
 
Got some boys from a Kansas City chop-shop been stealing cars and giving 'em a quick facelift.
 
'Course we ain't got 'em
all
, yet, but we're working on it."

This was more information than I needed.
 
He wasn't just making small-talk, he was deliberately making me nervous.
 
He looked at the paint under his fingernail, then wiped it against the side of his pants.
 
"Can I ask your name?"

I told him.

"This your car, Mr. Sieber?"

"Nope."

The response seemed to surprise him.
 
"Mind telling me whose car it
is
?" he asked, his right hand slipping just a little closer to his holstered weapon.

"Technically, no one's.
 
My brother-in-law loaned it to me.
 
He owns a used-car dealership in Cedar Hill, Ohio."
 
After that it was just a matter of showing him my license, giving him Perry's address and phone number, and waiting while he ran a check on the information.

Once he confirmed that I wasn't part of some tri-state car-theft ring he came back and returned my license.
 
"It all checks out, which I'm sure comes as a big surprise to you.
 
Sorry for the inconvenience, but we gotta be careful.
 
There've been a
lot
of car thefts in the last week or so.
 
A couple of folks were even bashed in the head and pulled from their cars at stoplights.
 
So we kind of want these fellahs real bad."

"I understand."
 
I shoved my wallet back into my pocket.
 
"I don't suppose there's any way you could give me a lift to the nearest service station…?"

"Afraid not.
 
Unless it's a life-or-death emergency, it's against regulations.
 
I already got 'hold of Cletus over at the truck stop—a better mechanic you won't find.
 
He'll be along with the tow truck in about forty minutes and you can ride back with him.
 
He'll get you fixed up, but I gotta warn you—he'll talk your ear off."

"If he gives me a ride and can fix this heap, he can sing arias from
La Traviata
in Esperanto for all I care."

The trooper grinned.
 
"Hey, you know opera?
 
My wife's a big opera fan.
 
I bought her season tickets last Christmas.
 
'Course that means I have to go with her, but I'm getting to not mind it as much as I thought I would.
 
Some of them singers can hit notes that'll shatter your bridgework.
 
Here," he said, handing me an ice-cold can of Coke and small plastic bag filled with carrot sticks.
 
"We keep a cooler of sodas and snacks and stuff in the back of the cruiser in case we come across folks like yourself.
 
I'd've brought you some water, but we're fresh out.
 
Anyway, it seemed to me like you could use some refreshment, so there you go.
 
I hope Cletus can get you fixed up all right.
 
Try to enjoy what you can of the day."

"Thank you."

He started back toward his cruiser.
 
"Don't you worry none about being stuck out here, Mr. Sieber.
 
If Cletus says he'll be here in forty minutes, he'll be here in forty minutes."

He was there in twenty-five.
 
While I stood waiting, the twin butter dishes cruised by a second time; once again the little girl smiled at me and waved, and I gave her the same in return.
 
Her folks probably took a wrong exit and had to get turned around.
 
I felt nothing but sympathy for them.
 
I noticed this time that the Airstream's windows were taped over from the inside; that seemed an odd way to keep out sunlight.
 
Maybe they'd lost their blinds.
 
Maybe the windows had been cracked by rocks shooting out from under the tires of passing semis.
 
Maybe I should watch that my ass didn't wander into oncoming traffic while I wondered about other peoples' trailer windows.