Wise Blood by Flannery O’Connor Page A

Haze didn’t see the boy but he was there,
     sitting up on the hood of a car two cars over. He was sitting huddled up as if he
     were freezing but his face had a sour composed look. “All new tires,” the man said.
    “They were new when it was built,” Haze said.
    “They was better cars built a few years ago,” the man said. “They don’t make no more
     good cars.”
    “What you want for it?” Haze asked again.
    The man stared off, thinking. After a while he said, “I might could let you have it
     for sixty-fi’.”
    Haze leaned against the car and started to roll a cigarette but he couldn’t get it
     rolled. He kept spilling the tobacco and then the papers.
    “Well, what you want to pay for it?” the man asked. “I wouldn’t trade me a Chrysler
     for a Essex like that. That car yonder ain’t been built by a bunch of niggers.
    “All the niggers are living in Detroit now, putting cars together,” he said, making
     conversation. “I was up there a while myself and I seen. I come home.”
    “I wouldn’t pay over thirty dollars for it,” Haze said.
    “They got one nigger up there,” the man said, “is almost as light as you or me.” He
     took off his hat and ran his finger around the sweat band inside it. He had a little
     bit of carrot-colored hair.
    “We’ll drive it around,” the man said, “or would you like to get under and look up
     it?”
    “No,” Haze said.
    The man gave him a half look. “You pay when you leave,” he said easily. “You don’t
     find what you looking for in one there’s others for the same price obliged to have
     it.” Two cars over the boy began to curse again. It was like a hacking cough. Haze
     turned suddenly and kicked his foot into the front tire. “I done tole you them tires
     won’t bust,” the man said.
    “How much?” Haze said.
    “I might could make it fifty dollar,” the man offered.
    Before Haze bought the car, the man put some gas in it and drove him around a few
     blocks to prove it would run. The boy sat hunched up in the back on the two-by-four,
     cursing. “Something’s wrong with him howcome he curses so much,” the man said. “Just
     don’t listen at him.” The car rode with a high growling noise. The man put on the
     brakes to show how well they worked and the boy was thrown off the two-by-four at
     their heads. “Goddam you,” the man roared, “quit jumping at us thataway. Keep your
     butt on the board.” The boy didn’t say anything. He didn’t even curse. Haze looked
     back and he was sitting huddled up in the black raincoat with the black leather cap
     pulled down almost to his eyes. The only thing different was that the ash had been
     knocked off his cigarette.
    He bought the car for forty dollars and then he paid the man extra for five gallons
     of gasoline. The man had the boy go in the office and bring out a five-gallon can
     of gas to fill up the tank with. The boy came cursing and lugging the yellow gas can,
     bent over almost double. “Give it here,” Haze said, “I’ll do it myself.” He was in
     a terrible hurry to get away in the car. The boy jerked the can away from him and
     straightened up. It was only half full but he held it over the tank until five gallons
     would have spilled out slowly. All the time he kept saying, “Sweet Jesus, sweet Jesus,
     sweet Jesus.”
    “Why don’t he shut up?” Haze said suddenly. “What’s he keep talking like that for?”
    “I don’t never know what ails him,” the man said and shrugged.
    When the car was ready the man and the boy stood by to watch him drive it off. He
     didn’t want anybody watching him because he hadn’t driven a car in four or five years.
     The man and the boy didn’t say anything while he tried to start it. They only stood
     there, looking in at him. “I wanted this car mostly to be a house for me,” he said
     to the man. “I ain’t got any place to be.”
    “You ain’t took the brake off yet,” the man said.
    He took off the brake