Prodigal Blues (4 page)

I'd just finished the last of the Coke and carrot sticks when Cletus pulled up in his rig.
 
"Mark, I take it?" he called out through the window.

"Cletus?"
 
Using first names like we were old friends.

"Appears we're all in our places with bright shiny faces, then."
 
He climbed out and handed me a brown paper bag; inside was a ham and cheese sandwich, a brownie, and another can of Coke.
 
"I had Muriel make this up for you.
 
My garage is attached to the truck stop restaurant.
 
Lorenzo said you'd been out here a while.
 
Figured you'd be a bit hungry."

"Thanks," I said.
 
"Who's Lorenzo?"

"Murphy.
 
The trooper who talked to you.
 
And, yes, that is his real name, don't ask me why, I wasn't privy to the discussion his parents had prior to saddling him with it.
 
The food's free of charge, in case you were wondering.
 
Figure folks stuck by the side of the road got enough headaches without their stomach giving them three different kinds of holy hell."

"I appreciate it."

He pulled a flashlight out from his bib overalls and snapped it on.
 
"Don't be too appreciative just yet.
 
You got no idea what the bill for this might be."

"I was afraid you were going to say something like that."

He went around to the passenger side of the car and crawled underneath.
 
As I ate the sandwich, the flashlight beam beneath the car danced round and round, then up and down and back again.
 
Cletus laughed a couple of times, coughed once, then stopped for a moment and muttered, "
Diddle me with a fiddlestick
," before emerging back into the light.

"Should I even ask?"

"Wouldn't if I was you," he said, leaning over the opened hood and shaking his head.
 
He reached in, jiggled a few things, checked the oil, licked his thumb and unscrewed a spark plug, then snorted a sad little laugh.

"Can you see this?" he asked me.

"What am I looking for?"

"The color.
 
Does this look
green
to you?"

"The stuff coating the spark plug?
 
Yes, it does."

"Remember that.
 
There's gonna be a quiz later."
 
He replaced the spark plug, then slammed closed the hood.
 
"Way I see, Mark, you got two choices; we can tow this thing to my garage, or I can pull out my trusty Savage over-and-under and put this thing out of your misery.
 
Your call; either way you're riding back with me."

"Is it that bad?"

"Your car or riding with me?
 
I see I've confused you with my home-spun wit, so I'll just keep talking 'cause I'm what you call a 'local character' and like the sound of my voice; this car—and I'm being charitable using that word—is an insult to pieces of shit everywhere.
 
You know much about how cars work?"

"Nope."

"Good, because I could pull a muscle explaining everything that's wrong with this over-priced paperweight.
 
Understand this:
 
I don't embellish, I don't pad the bill, and I don't talk down to folks who aren't as well-schooled about cars as my own resplendent self.
 
Ask anyone who knows me—and you can do just that when we get to the truck stop—and they'll tell you I'm as straight and honest as they come, unless we're talking Pinochle, where I cheat like a son-of-a-bitch.
 
You getting the gist of this long-winded preamble to the point or should I start again and talk slower?"

I think I liked him.
 
"I'm with you so far."

"That thrills me—see how I'm all a-flutter?
 
Okay, here goes:
 
you've blown a head gasket—not high on the list of 'good things,' trust me—and you've got coolant leaking into the oil and cylinder.
 
That's why the spark plug looked green.
 
You've also got a leaking master cylinder, which is a brake component, should have been caught before this thing left the lot, and is a damn serious safety violation.
 
If that isn't enough,
 
I've got thirty-year-old suspenders that my dog uses as a chew-toy that're in better shape than that alternator belt—and
those
are just the problems I saw right off the bat.
 
Further details would drive even Mickey Mouse to suicide.
 
Let me ask you something:
 
before this thing crapped-out on you, did the 'Check Engine' light come on?"

I thought about it for a moment.
 
"You know, I don't remember seeing it come on.
 
Why?"

He chewed on his lower lip, then shook his head.
 
"I just got a… a feeling about something, is all.
 
Nothing for you to worry about.
 
Would you like to shoot it or should I?"

"I can't do anything to it, and I can't just leave it here; it doesn't belong to me."

"Then let's get you and it back to something resembling civilization."

Fifteen minutes later we were heading toward the truck stop with my brother-in-law's loaner behind us.
 
I'd tossed the fallen fender into the front seat, tearing the upholstery.
 
Just let Perry
try
and charge me for the repairs.

After about two minutes' worth of travel, Cletus said, "Mind if I ask what brought you to these parts?"

"Had to sign some papers so my sister could get her share of an inheritance."

"Inheritance?
 
You lose a parent?"

"No, my grandmother."

"I'm sorry to hear that.
 
I truly am."

"Thanks."
 
I didn't want to get into the specifics—not because I figured it was none of his business, but because the less I said about my grandmother, the better. The important thing was that my sister now had a nice pile of money that was enabling her to move back to Ohio with my niece and nephew—and as far away from her hemorrhoid of an ex-husband as she could get.

I checked my watch; right now she and her kids were boarding a plane that would take them to O'Hare, where they'd transfer to a flight into Columbus.
 
Tanya was going to pick them up at the airport and drive them back to Cedar Hill, where they'd stay with us for a week or so, until my sister found her own place.
 
I was looking forward to having my niece and nephew around the house; their being nine and seven, respectively, would give Tanya and me a chance to rehearse being parents.

I felt a sudden twinge in my nether regions and looked up.
 
"Oh, hell."

Cletus laughed.
 
"Let me guess—you gotta make a pause for the cause?"

"Two Cokes within an hour in hot weather."

"That'd be a 'yes' then?"

"Uh-huh."

"I hate to spread even more sunshine over your day, but we're a good twenty minutes away from the garage, so you can either try to hold it or…"
 
He reached under the seat and pulled out a plastic, hand-held urinal, complete with snap-on cap, the kind they use for bed-ridden patients in hospitals.

I looked at the thing and blinked.
 
"You're not serious?"

"I'm not the one who's gotta whiz like a diabetic racehorse.
 
I also don't much embarrass easy.
 
For the record, I like women and don't have any you-should-pardon-the-expression fetishes, and if you're worried about maintaining your dignity, you pretty much gave that up when you climbed into that abomination back there."
 
He shook the urinal in front of my face.
 
"I promise not to look."

"Why in hell do you even
have
that thing?"

"You think you're the first guy I ever picked up who's had to go after being stuck on the side of the road?
 
Don't look at me like that, it's been sanitized."
 
He shook it one more time.
 
"It's calling your name, hear it?"

"Anyone ever tell you that you're an evil man?"

"I get a lot of complaints about that.
 
Especially from the fellows who play Pinochle with me.
 
Did I mention I cheat?"

I took the urinal and popped off the cap, then looked at Cletus.

"What?" he said.
 
"You need me to talk you through it?"

I turned a little to the side, unzipped my fly, and did what needed doing.

"Make sure that cap's on tight when you're done."

I did.
 
"What do I do with it now?"

Cletus looked at me.
 
"No offense, but
I
sure as hell ain't gonna hold it for you—this friendly roadside service only goes so far."

I started to say something, then blinked from a startling, blinding glint of light in the rear-view mirror.

"Talk about your blasts from the past," said Cletus.
 
"Get a load of this."

The twin silver butter dishes drove past.
 
I wondered how anyone could have missed the same exit twice—unless the driver had been having my kind of luck today.
 
This time when the little girl looked at me she neither smiled nor waved.
 
She seemed tired, hot, and bored.
 
I hoped they could find their exit this time, for her sake.

B
efore we'd even gotten in sight of the garage, Cletus—after pontificating on the glories of Pinochle, letterboxed movies, good books, and women who had "…a little meat on their bones…"—informed me of the following:
 
"I'm not saying I can't fix it, understand—it'd take a couple of days, probably—but whatever I did would be:
 
A) expensive, and, B) really,
really
temporary.
 
I'm talking a Band-Aid on a gunshot wound, got it?
 
At best, I could slap that thing back together good enough to maybe,
maybe
get you another two-hundred-fifty, three hundred miles farther along, but it'd just crap out on you again, and the next time it goes, it's gonna be a helluva lot worse than it was this time,
and
it's gonna be permanent.
 
So I'm sorry to tell you, but unless you absolutely insist on it 'til you're blue in the face, I
will not
send you on your way in a car that I know isn't going to get you home."

I sighed and rubbed my eyes.
 
"There any motels near the truck stop?"

"There's a nice one that don't cost too much
and
they give discounts to my garage customers."

"What about the car?"

"They don't allow cars to stay in the rooms so the discount doesn't apply.
 
I see that once again my Mark Twain-like humor has flummoxed you.
 
Tell you what, give me your brother-in-law's number and I'll call him and make arrangements for the burial.
 
He can either sell it to me cheap for what parts are still working, or pay my appalling storage prices while it sits in the garage waiting for someone to come down here and haul it back to his lot.
 
Besides, I'd like to say a few words to him about the quality of automobiles he's pawning off.
 
As far as what you owe me goes, call it thirty dollars for the tow."

"There any place I can rent a decent car?"

"Not in the immediate vicinity, but we're not all that far from Jefferson City and you can rent one there easily enough.
 
I'd offer to take you on over right now but today's busy as hell.
 
Be more than glad to drive you there in the morning before I open the garage, though; otherwise you'll have to beg a ride off one of the truckers coming through and I wouldn't recommend that—not that they're bad fellows, most of them are top-drawer, but you don't strike me as the trucker-befriending type.
 
My guess is country music has never insulted your stereo's speakers."

I was hot, I was tired, I was nine-squared levels of aggravated, and—despite the sandwich and carrots—still hungry; I didn't feel like dealing with any more crises today.
 
I told Cletus I'd take him up on his offer.
 
I'd get something to eat at the truck stop, then check into the motel and call Tanya.

"A man with a plan," said Cletus as we pulled into the garage.

I was happy to see that the motel was also adjacent to the truck stop; at least there'd be no worries about crossing the highway.
 
If I got lost, I could always use their flagpole for a marker; it was about thirty feet tall and was currently flying the biggest American flag I'd ever seen.
 
Right now the flag was caught in a crosswind and was snapping back and twisting around like it was trying to bite itself on the ass.