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No one knew what was under that tarp. No one except the old man, and you couldn’t get nothing out of him. He was like a rusted trap. Only you can’t use kerosene and mineral oil to clean up an old man. So, folks talked. Folks speculated. Most of us figured it was some kind of car. You had to know that. Probably. It was the right size for a car, but it didn’t add up. The man’s house was like one of them Lincoln Log sets after it’s been smashed to hell by some spoiled toddler. And it wasn’t like he was stranded. He had an old Chevy truck that beat the odds most days like near everyone in town. Nobody had two cars.
Nobody.
It was one of those things people liked to toy with. End of the day. Everyone on their porches. Kids doped up on sun and fatigue. The men slipping bourbon into their sweet tea. The women pretending they didn’t see. They’d start with the rise in prices. Who was losing what part of their lives. But then they’d work their way around to the old man and his tarp. Tommy Johnson thought it was a spaceship. Lilith Earnest thought it was his sleigh – like he was Santa. A dirty, weird old Santa. Most people thought it was a pile of rusted shit. Or moldy wood. Some kind of trash. Something they could use to chip at the old man and his ways. He was queer. What did he have to hide?
Me? I didn’t have any earthly idea. But I wondered.
Usually, about the time that the first stars were coming out, the kids would be hustled to bed, but they’d go to sleep wondering. The adults would keep talking and eventually someone would have the balls to say it. What everyone else was thinking. “Guess we’ll find out when he dies…”
Usually, about the time that the first stars were coming out, the kids would be hustled to bed, but they’d go to sleep wondering. The adults would keep talking and eventually someone would have the balls to say it. What everyone else was thinking. “Guess we’ll find out when he dies…”
And then the old man did die. And people waited a few days. No one wanted to be the first. Seemed tacky. And we were willing to be a lot of things, but tacky was the worst thing you could be. It meant low class. Money or not. Chief Emery was the one who finally yanked that thing off, yellowed and dirty and grease-stained. Covered in bird shit. He did the pulling, but we were all in on it. It was like we pulled with one will. And, when the tarp hit the ground, we all covered our eyes.
Underneath the tarp was a bright red Buick convertible. Looked like it just come off the lot. Or out of the factory. And we were gobsmacked. When? How? No rust? Why? The kids wanted to touch it. The religious folks said the old man was the devil. Chief Emery didn’t know what the hell to do, but he was smart enough to keep folks away. Most just shook their heads. Devil or not, it was the nicest car they’d ever seen. And they spoke as one, heads wagging.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
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