Chapter 8
'BWROOWNK-BWROWNK-BWROWNK-BWROWNK –BWROWNK' went my reserve alarm clock the next morning.
I started to bat it off the dresser like I had the other one, but then I remembered what good things lay in store, so I just pressed the snooze and heaved out of bed.
I hauled off and flew about my Saturday morning rituals, first showering and putting on new clothes, and then rushing down to the kitchen to fix my usual breakfast, which consisted of a few strips of scorched bacon that smoked up the house, a mug full of twice-brewed coffee from what had been held over from the day before, two fried eggs, and a piece of dry, wheat toast.
From there I thundered along under cool, clear skies on the little path my uncle had cut out to the garage's parking lot.
Now, the big garage was a lot different than the mangy little one I kept the Wagon in, and a lot more welcoming.
It had a wide, cement floor covered with grease stains so old rumors were that they'd been there since the B.C's.
In and around the stains stood tall, broad tool chests filled with equipment both factory-made and hand built by Uncle Fred, which could all be used for every job imaginable.
In the center of the floor were two grease pits that were put in in place of lifts, and in one corner of the concrete expanse, under the grimy dust cover I put over it at the end of each day, was my wrecker.
'Now, when I said this thing was third hand, I should have said 33rd hand.
It was a 1956 Mack B61 bobtail that Uncle Freddie'd retrofitted with a tow boom and a winch.
It had a straight-six Detroit diesel engine that'd been rebuilt at least seven times, hydraulic brakes with a manual master cylinder, a battle ship gray paintjob, and a Cobra CB that had enough added juice to make contact with Britain.
It'd been placed in my care when I inherited the business, and I kept it running and looking as good as a Swiss pocket watch.
I began my inspection with two laps around with a wrench in my hand, tightening anything that looked loose. Then I crawled under to poke at the engine block and oil plug, which thankfully proved fruitless.
After that I checked the fluid levels and tested my lights, with both checks catching a solid A+.
I then tried the radio, and as I expected, I was soon picking up the BBC, which ended my inspection.
You thought I was stretching things there, didn't you? Nope.
I cranked the engine and it started with a roar, and I rumbled across the concrete, managing to get the six-speed transmission into fourth by the time I hit the doors.
Of course, just as I got outside I had to pop it in neutral and hit the brakes so I could get out and shut them, but other than that…
Inside of five minutes I was idling into the Guilders' driveway yet again, digging out on the radio and smiling like a beaver.
I brought the rig to a stop, set the handbrake, and hopped out, strutting up to the porch.
I eased up on the porch, sidled up to the door, and cut loose with a short blast of knocks that rattled the windows.
"Hang on" said a voice. From inside the house I heard footsteps. I checked my watch, and luckily I was on time yet again.
I was in for a surprise, because instead of one of the creatures from the short-hair lagoon, it was none other than Ms. Ellie herself, in a denim jacket, a white halter top and a pair of shorts just barely able to pass parental regulations.
"Good Morning". She said cheerily.
"Morning". I said, straining to keep my jaws from cracking the porch and straining to keep my eyes in their sockets. (Of course, I was also mentally giving myself a cold shower, but that's beside the point.)
I didn't know how it was possible, but this chick had some kind of power that made her able to look three times hotter every time I saw her.
"Is that your truck?" she asked, looking over my shoulder.
"Well yes ma'am it is". I said, "Now, are you sure your folks are fine with this?"
"Mona's not too fond of the idea". She said. And with the way she said her stepmother's name I could tell that she'd already gotten a taste of that scrawny hag's venom.
"I'll bet". I said, "Well now, is your old man fine with it?"
"Yep". She said, "Of course, He told me that I'd have to check in with him while we're out. Now, is this an okay outfit, or is there something wrong with it?"
"Well, there is ONE thing you could do for me". I said.
"What would that be?" she asked, a wry smile on her lips.
"Well, it concerns those shorts you're wearing". I said, sounding far older and clearer minded than I was at the moment.
"If we were riding in the car, I'd love them. However, what we're dealing with here is a set of threadbare seats with springs that'll get you as sure as a rattlesnake.
I wouldn't dare allow you to sit in those things with your legs exposed like that.
It might not seem like much, but if you get hurt, it's my tail in a sling and your ears in the path of your stepmother's voice".
"Sounds like a raw deal". She said, "Okay, just give me a second and I'll change".
She then disappeared back into the house, and returned wearing a pair of snug, patched-up jeans that made my collar burn.
"Happy now?" she asked.
Rather than replay the end of our date the night before, I simply nodded and walked her to the truck.
****
Ah, the open road and its charms...seeing trees and houses roll by at 35 miles an hour…and listening to the loud, low growling of a Detroit diesel because the AM radio had faded to static…
Of course, that paled to the soft-voiced knock-out riding shotgun. It was all I could do to keep from pulling over and hauling her into a necking session.
After three minutes of quiet, she spoke.
"Dodge?" she said, having to talk over the engine.
"What?" I bellowed back, easing off the throttle to hear.
"What is it you said you'd tell me today?"
"What do you mean?" I asked.
She said, "You said you'd tell me how you got your garage".
"Oh," I said, easing the rig to the shoulder of the road. I turned off the engine, gathered myself, and then I began.
