The Methuselah Gene (6 page)

I repeated myself.
 
“Sir?
 
Excuse me?”

Not even a twitch.
 
Was the man asleep?
 
I stepped into the bay and tapped one boot with my foot.
 
It had no effect.

“Hey,” I said, nudging harder this time.

Still nothing.

I finally bent over, and wiggled the boot with my hand.
 
Then I pulled at the dolly.

The man was not dead.
 
It was not even a whole man.
 
The legs were fake.

I jumped back, startled, just as laughter bellowed from behind me, which momentarily stopped my heart.
 
I whirled to see a mechanic.
 
He was a fat man in his early forties with a round, pockmarked face, patchy blond hair, and a thick, unruly mustache.
 
He carried half a sandwich in one pudgy hand.
 
The name WALLY was embroidered on his dirty orange jumpsuit.
 
He looked like Sgt. Schultz of the old Hogan's Heroes TV series, if the actor's cherubic face had been to hell and back.
 
This Schultz needed
Propecia
, too.
 
In his youth he could have used heavy doses of
Cleocin
or
Minocin
as well, because his cheeks were so scarred by acne that both of them deserved a Purple Heart.

“Sorry, partner,” the mechanic said with effusive charm, trying to calm himself.
 
Although he also laughed actual tears.
 
“That's my stand-in when I'm on break.”
 
He wiped one hand across his chest and offered to shake my hand, but I just stared at it.
 
“Name's Wally.”

“I can see that,” I told him.
 
“Thanks for waking me up there, Wally.
 
I've been sleep walking for the better part of a mile.”

Wally lowered his hand slowly, his face registering confusion and mild disappointment.
 
“You stranded?”

“How'd you guess?”
 
Thought you see nothing, know nothing.

“I never seen you before.
 
So are
ya
outta
gas?”

“No, I'm stuck in the ditch.
 
About a mile north.”

“How'd that happen?”

I didn't answer.
 
Wally finished what looked like a chicken sandwich on rye with two large bites.
 
He munched hard, now, working the final mouthful while he mumbled, “Anyway, no problem, partner.
 
Got a tow truck.
 
Won't cost
ya
a dime.”

“A what?” I asked.

“Yup.
 
Just a few dollars.”
 
His laughter was not quite as big and booming this time.
 
“Sorry, just
kiddin
'
ya
. . .
pullin
' yer leg, so
ta
speak.”
 
He slid the fake feet back under the car with a nudge of his worn work shoe.
 
Then he walked out to the tow truck parked behind the station.
 
I followed reluctantly.
 
In passing, he nodded at the BE BACK SOON sign in the window next to a symmetrical stack of oil cans, saying, “I'm still on break, see.
 
And hey, did you know you look kinda like that actor guy?”

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” I admitted, lazily.
 
“Michael Keaton.”

“No, I mean the guy who played Superman.”

“You mean Batman.”

“Whatever.”

“Michael Keaton.”

“That's his name?”

“Was.
 
He's lost his name, and is losing his hair, too.”

“Just like you?”
 
Wally sporadic laughter was beginning to annoy me.
 
It sounded as though the chicken bone permanently stuck in his throat had meat on it.
 
“Where
ya
from?”

“Richmond, Virginia.”

“Really?
 
Wow.”

“Car's a rental, from the airport in Omaha.”

“Yeah?
 
Where
ya
headed?”

We climbed into the old tow truck, which had little explosions of stuffing where the seat cushion foam had burst from the frayed stitching.
 
“Here, actually,” I said.
 
“A friend moved here recently, thought I'd surprise him.”

“That right?
 
Well, I sure surprised you, didn't I?
 
What's yer friend's name?
 
I know everybody round here, but then so does everybody else.”
 
He chuckled halfheartedly, winding down from his high of the day.
 
I could see that he only partly understood a foreigner's point of view, so I didn't answer him at first, hoping the name question would lose itself.
 
When the truck started up, after a few backfires, we headed north.
 
It was a direction where no one had ever needed to point.
 
“‘Course if you wanna surprise him, well . . .”

After a too uncomfortable silence, I tried, “You know Walter Mills?”

“No, can't say I do.
 
Yet.
 
How long's he been here?”

“Not long.”
 
I extended my hand slowly, reluctantly.
 
“I'm Freddy, by the way.
 
Freddy Wilson.”

We shook hands.
 
Wally's grasp across the truck's tight cab was loose and cool, like the blood had lost its way, and only muscle memory remained.
 
He even pumped my hand too, before letting go suddenly, as if remembering not to be too friendly.
 
“Glad to know
ya
, Freddy.
 
I never forget a name or a face.
 
Sorry ‘bout
scarin
'
ya
, back there.”

“I'm getting used to it,” I told him, sincerely this time.

The Taurus was canted into the deepest section of the ditch, undisturbed in the warm afternoon sunlight.
 
Wally pulled alongside, got out, and began to hook up the tow truck's rigging to the Taurus's undercarriage, whistling as he worked.
 
Then he saw something, and bent down further for a closer look under the car.
 
Flopping himself down next to it, he put his head all the way to the ground, under the bumper.
 
Then his whistling took a familiar downward note before it stopped.

“Uh-oh,” Wally announced, and just as I was imagining his head becoming stuck, and the car shifting to decapitate him.

“What?
 
What is it?”

“Broken tie rod.
 
Take a while to fix that.
 
Lucky you ain't just
passin
' through.”

I attempted to peer under the front from the driver's side, to verify it.
 
But I couldn't see, and so I couldn't tell what I was looking at, exactly.
 
“Tie rod?”

“Yup.”
 
Wally got up with difficulty, dusting his hands, and returned to the tow controls.
 
With the chains taut, he proceeded to activate the truck's hydraulics to lift the car up.
 
Then he climbed into the cab, gears forward, and finally edged the Taurus out, whistling a loud tuneless tune to himself that conveyed neither rhythm nor reason.
 
When the Taurus was finally free and up into tow position, I climbed into the truck beside my new redneck friend.
 
We drove slowly back to the station.

“You lived here all your life?” I asked in an attempt to stop his resumed and annoying whistle.

“Me?
 
Well, no.
 
I'm from Atlantic.”

“You mean Atlanta?
 
Atlantic City?”

“No, I mean Atlantic, Iowa.
 
It's fifty miles northwest a' here.
 
My uncle Pritchard, who heard about Larry
Johnstone
wanting to sell the Shell franchise here and retire?
 
Well, he set me onto it.
 
That was four years ago.
 
I was mechanic and part owner at the big Exxon station in Atlantic, but I didn't get along with Zeke, much.”

“Zeke,” I repeated, in amazement.
 
“Zeke?”

“Yup, Zeke was from Cedar Rapids, and I reckon those guys move too fast, there.”
 
Wally clucked, giving his looping whistle, then finished off with a patented chuckle.
 
“Me, I like
ta
take my time, do it right.
 
Like
bein
' my own boss, too.
 
They say I'm kinda like Larry, the townsfolk around here do.
 
So they get along with me pretty good.
 
As fer Larry
Johnstone
, he moved to Naples, where he be
takin
' it slow and easy, now.”

“Naples, Iowa?”

Wally looked at me oddly.
 
“Florida.
 
You know, heaven's
waitin
' room.”

I nodded, visualizing my own retirement, where I'd get to stare out at the tourists and passing RVs like a bone-frozen iguana.
 
“Or hell's.”

Wally boomed with laughter, briefly.
 
“
Ya
didn't tell me what
ya
do for a
livin
.'
 
Sell insurance, or somethin'?”

I studied the early corn out the side window, and wondered how Jay Leno would answer the question.
 
“No, I'm just a
stand up
comic, looking for new material.
 
Corny material, you know?”

Wally didn't see any humor in my comment, and that left us with another uneasy silence the rest of the way back.

At the Shell station, we pulled in alongside the empty bay.
 
“How long, do you think?” I asked him.

“Ta fix a tie rod?
 
Long as it takes to find the part.
 
You're a long way from Omaha, but maybe you wanna call Avis there anyway?”

I suddenly realized that he must have seen the front license plate frame, and read AVIS there.
 
Did it also say Des Moines?
I wondered.
 
And why had I lied about that?
 
“You saying that you, ah, can't do it?” I asked, almost choking on the words.

“Oh sure, I can do it.
 
There's a big junk yard down in Creston.
 
Plannin
' a trip down there in the morning, anyway.
 
Ain't likely
ta
be factory-authorized, though.”
 
He paused, scrutinizing me.
 
“
Ya
not
plannin
' on
tellin
' yer rental company?”

I smiled nervously.
 
“Well, I . . . I guess I'll wait and see what kinda job you do.”
 
I felt awkward, wanting to cut this short.
 
“There a bank in town?”

“We take credit cards.
 
Need a few extra bucks, I can spot
ya
, too.”

“Thanks anyway.
 
Post Office?”

Wally hooked a thumb south, toward that bustling metropolis known as downtown Zion.
 
“See it?
 
Across from the diner?
 
Be another little hole in the wall to you.”

“What about a motel?”

“Thought you were staying with your friend . . .”

I swallowed involuntarily, lowering my head just in time to disguise it.
 
“Well, I'm not sure exactly where Walter lives.
 
Lost the address.”

“No
kiddin
'. . .
 
No phone number either, yet?”

“It was with the address.
 
Unlisted.”

“Well, ain't that too bad.”
 
Wally held an odd new look in his eyes now.
 
A steady, unblinking, and liquid gaze that was like a window to another side of him.

“So, is there a motel?”

“Nope.
 
There's a rooming house, though.
 
Mabel's is a ways past the post office.
 
Look for a left, then a hundred yards or so.
 
Gotta warn
ya
, nickname for the place is the ‘Black Flag.'
 
Could be the Heartbreak Hotel too.”