they
thought was a Japanese fishing trawler out in the Straits, turned out to be
outgoing, full of machine parts. Shit like that." He trotted over and sold
the kid the blue bong.
We were alone in the store now. For the first time I noticed that the Blues
Project was coming through the ceiling-mounted speakers. Paul Butterfield was
wailing his heart out. It still sounded good. Another hour of this and I was
going to spend the next three days calling everybody man or sister or some such
shit. As the door closed silently behind the kid, Arnie spoke down the length
of the store.
"They see most of the old-time moments as part of the problem.
Greenpeace, the Sierra Club, even Earth First! These kids hate all of them,
think they're a bunch of wussies. Don't' attend any of the symposiums or
anything. I'm telling you brother, they're going to set the movement back
thirty years is what they're going to do."
"What else?" I asked when he stopped.
"That's all I know, Leo. You want more, I know a guy, a writer, who can
maybe help you. He's more tied into that area than I am." I said I did.
Arnie reached beneath the counter and came out with an ornately tooled leather
address book. He copied down a name and number on a blue Post-it and stuck it
on my shirt front. I peeled it off and slipped it in my pocket.
"Is the gate locked?" I asked.
"Nope. You can just waltz in."
"No dogs or anything like that?"
"Just Nadine," he said with a chuckle. "She's my current
squeeze. She's probably not up yet though. Just tell her I said it was
okay."
We repeated the secret handshake, promised to get together more often, which
we both knew to be a lie, and parted company.
I walked the fifteen blocks through the U ghetto to Arnie's place. As
promised, the gate was open. Ten or twelve dilapidated cars filled the
backyard. The famous "No Hope Without Dope" VW van rested like a
piece of sculpture on cement blocks. A family of pigeons was living inside.
They made no move to escape as I peered through the dusty windows.
The Buick was backed up against the fence at the far end of the yard. A true
land yacht. A car for the long-gone nuclear family, its once woody sides faded
white. It had originally been either blue or gray - the level of oxidation made
it hard to tell. I took a tour. The tires were mismatched but looked
serviceable. I opened the passenger door. The interior was filled with more
spare parts. An axle lay across the front seat. Fifteen or twenty old rims,
some with tires, some without, filled the rest of the car, floorboard to
ceiling. I went back around the front to the driver's side, leaned in, and
popped the hood release, leaving that door open too. The rusted parts smelled
decadent and organic, like a roadkill drying in the sun.
The engine was cleaner than the rest of the car. My hopes buoyed, I walked
over to the little shack tacked on the back of the house and found Arnie's
toolbox right where he'd always kept it.
I scrounged the plates from the Opel and the battery from the Chevy. I had
the newer battery bolted into the Buick and was wedged in between the fence and
the back bumper cold-chiseling the last license-plate bolt off when I heard the
screen door squeak.
"That you honey?" Female voice, thick southern drawl. "That
you bangin' around out there?" I gave the rusted bolt three more strokes.
The plate fell into my lap. I butt-bumped my way out from behind the Buick and
stood to dust myself. She was standing on the back steps of the little house
wrapped in a blue bath towel.
I guessed she was slightly less than half Arnie's age. Twenty or so. Fresh
from the shower, her black hair glistened. I set the ball-peen hammer and
chisel on the fender and started over. If all women looked like this one,
makeup and fashion sales would go in the dumpster. She didn't need any help.
Even at a distance, my envy returned.
"Arnie's loaning me the Buick," I said, still walking.
"What's yo name, darlin'?"
"Leo." This was not last-name
thought was a Japanese fishing trawler out in the Straits, turned out to be
outgoing, full of machine parts. Shit like that." He trotted over and sold
the kid the blue bong.
We were alone in the store now. For the first time I noticed that the Blues
Project was coming through the ceiling-mounted speakers. Paul Butterfield was
wailing his heart out. It still sounded good. Another hour of this and I was
going to spend the next three days calling everybody man or sister or some such
shit. As the door closed silently behind the kid, Arnie spoke down the length
of the store.
"They see most of the old-time moments as part of the problem.
Greenpeace, the Sierra Club, even Earth First! These kids hate all of them,
think they're a bunch of wussies. Don't' attend any of the symposiums or
anything. I'm telling you brother, they're going to set the movement back
thirty years is what they're going to do."
"What else?" I asked when he stopped.
"That's all I know, Leo. You want more, I know a guy, a writer, who can
maybe help you. He's more tied into that area than I am." I said I did.
Arnie reached beneath the counter and came out with an ornately tooled leather
address book. He copied down a name and number on a blue Post-it and stuck it
on my shirt front. I peeled it off and slipped it in my pocket.
"Is the gate locked?" I asked.
"Nope. You can just waltz in."
"No dogs or anything like that?"
"Just Nadine," he said with a chuckle. "She's my current
squeeze. She's probably not up yet though. Just tell her I said it was
okay."
We repeated the secret handshake, promised to get together more often, which
we both knew to be a lie, and parted company.
I walked the fifteen blocks through the U ghetto to Arnie's place. As
promised, the gate was open. Ten or twelve dilapidated cars filled the
backyard. The famous "No Hope Without Dope" VW van rested like a
piece of sculpture on cement blocks. A family of pigeons was living inside.
They made no move to escape as I peered through the dusty windows.
The Buick was backed up against the fence at the far end of the yard. A true
land yacht. A car for the long-gone nuclear family, its once woody sides faded
white. It had originally been either blue or gray - the level of oxidation made
it hard to tell. I took a tour. The tires were mismatched but looked
serviceable. I opened the passenger door. The interior was filled with more
spare parts. An axle lay across the front seat. Fifteen or twenty old rims,
some with tires, some without, filled the rest of the car, floorboard to
ceiling. I went back around the front to the driver's side, leaned in, and
popped the hood release, leaving that door open too. The rusted parts smelled
decadent and organic, like a roadkill drying in the sun.
The engine was cleaner than the rest of the car. My hopes buoyed, I walked
over to the little shack tacked on the back of the house and found Arnie's
toolbox right where he'd always kept it.
I scrounged the plates from the Opel and the battery from the Chevy. I had
the newer battery bolted into the Buick and was wedged in between the fence and
the back bumper cold-chiseling the last license-plate bolt off when I heard the
screen door squeak.
"That you honey?" Female voice, thick southern drawl. "That
you bangin' around out there?" I gave the rusted bolt three more strokes.
The plate fell into my lap. I butt-bumped my way out from behind the Buick and
stood to dust myself. She was standing on the back steps of the little house
wrapped in a blue bath towel.
I guessed she was slightly less than half Arnie's age. Twenty or so. Fresh
from the shower, her black hair glistened. I set the ball-peen hammer and
chisel on the fender and started over. If all women looked like this one,
makeup and fashion sales would go in the dumpster. She didn't need any help.
Even at a distance, my envy returned.
"Arnie's loaning me the Buick," I said, still walking.
"What's yo name, darlin'?"
"Leo." This was not last-name
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