The Last Open Road

by Burt Levy

  By mid-August, Barry was finding plenty of stuff for me to do over at Westbridge, mostly because Vito got fired for stealing parts to do side jobs at home (often on Westbridge customers' cars!) and then threatened to flatten Barry's nose with the lead mallet when he was questioned about it. Which meant I started taking the two-hour train-and-bus ride into Manhattan every morning so I could arrive just after lunch. Barry insisted on that, since it meant he only had to pay me for half a day. No matter how late we worked. And some nights we worked late.

  I didn't have much in the way of a proper tool set, what with Butch's stuff still stuck under the workbench at the Sinclair, but Big Ed let me borrow a few things out of his Sears Shopping Spree collection and Sylvester would let me dip into his battered old toolbox whenever I needed something special. Fact is, I didn't need much in the way of sophisticated equipment anyhow, seeing as how I was the new guy and therefore got stuck with all the grunt jobs (grease and oil, cleaning parts, tire mounts, rusted exhausts, etc.) while Sylvester and the regular foreign-accented Westbridge crew handled all the heavy assembly work and fine-tuning. Every day I'd arrive to find a fresh assortment of Jags and MGs lined up with shit lists stuck under their windshield wipers, and my initials would inevitably be penciled in next to all the stuff you could train a damn monkey to do. To tell the truth, it was really getting me down. Hell, I figured I was at least as good as anybody in the shop (except for Sylvester, of course) but Colin and Barry were afraid to trust me with anything complicated on account of I was so young and only had a couple months' experience on English cars. Besides, you always need somebody to clean filthy transmission casings in the parts tank or remove all the gooey, smelly Cosmoline gunk from the new cars and then mount the bumpers and windshields and such. You could fit a lot more Jags and MGs in the hold of a ship if they didn't stand any higher than the fender line and were shorter by two bumpers, and they definitely needed that sticky Cosmoline coating against the salt air so's they wouldn't start rusting away to nothing until they were safely in the hands of their new owners. And I was the guy who got to do it all. Lucky me.

  But at least I got to hang around a lot of neat sports cars, and I was learning a lot about how the English put their cars together. Or almost put their cars together, as was more often the case. But it was a great education, even if I was putting in a lot of hours for a guy earning part-time pay. Most usually, I'd spend the afternoons (right through the heat of the day, natch) attending to oil changes and such for Colin and Barry's "boulevard" customers, and we wouldn't even start on the racing stuff until well past what normal people consider dinnertime. Barry would usually pack it in around twilight, but sometimes he'd let Sylvester and me stay a little later to finish this or that after he was gone. That was always kind of fun, on account of we'd talk while we worked, and I came to appreciate that Sylvester Jones was a pretty interesting guy. Bitter as hell, but interesting. He knew all sorts of stuff about mechanical gizmos and life in general (like Butch, you know?) and also like Butch, he didn't get along with many people at all. In fact, Sylvester carried around an extensive mental list of people who could bring him boundless joy by simply stepping in front of a fast-moving steam locomotive. Right at the top of that list were all the mean cracker sergeants he'd endured in the service, the shifty black dice jockeys he shot craps with two or three times a week, a conservative 97 percent of the white population in general, damn near all his relatives, and always and most especially, Colin St. John. "You look in the fuckin' dictionary," he told me. "You'll see ol' Colin's picture right next to the word 'asshole.' Ah ain't lyin '."

  Also like Butch, Sylvester invested a lot of creative energy into imagining terrible things that could happen to the people he didn't like. "Sheee-it , son, they oughta put all them cracker sergeants in a big ol' hydraulic press . . ."—he'd hold his arms out like the jaws of a giant bench vise—". . . an' then you jus' pull the damn lever an' let it ease on down . . . "—he'd slowly bring his arms together—". . . until you hear all them cracker skulls pop like ripe watermelons . . ."—at this point he'd add some really ingenious and disgusting popping noises—". . . and when you done, alls you got lef' is a bad smell an'a big ol' smear of cracker grease." It was beginning to dawn on me that Sylvester and Butch really had an awful lot in common, and it was too bad they would've gotten into a fistfight if you ever sat them down together for a glass of beer.

  Naturally, Barry wouldn't think of trusting Sylvester or me with a shop key, so he'd padlock the office and overhead door and set the alley door to latch itself behind him. Then he'd quietly remove the cash drawer (like we didn't know what he was doing, right?) and take off. So we had to be careful not to get ourselves locked out if we went into the alley for a smoke or a little fresh air. And you needed a little fresh air now and then on a steamy August night with all the damn doors locked and no breeze except a sad little hamster wheeze off the wall fan up by the service counter. Once Barry was gone, Sylvester'd most usually go down to the corner liquor store and buy us a six-pack (I'd chip in, of course) and that always helped. But we had to leave the empties in a trash can behind some other building so's Barry wouldn't know we'd been drinking in his shop. Not that he didn't, but you don't want to insult a guy by leaving the evidence right out in the open so you have to deny it. Anyhow, we'd both be pretty wrung out by the time we finished, and afterward Sylvester'd generally give me a lift to the Port Authority bus terminal on his way home (or to some gin mill or crap game in Harlem or wherever the hell else he might be headed) and it was always neat riding through the late-night Manhattan streets in Sylvester's rusty old Plymouth. We'd have the windows down and vents rotated backward to get a little breeze through the interior, and Sylvester'd most usually have one beer left that we'd pass back and forth and hide down below my knees anytime we drove past a cop car or saw one out walking his beat. There was always something electric about those rides through Manhattan on a warm summer night, even if I was just on my way over to the damn Port Authority in a rusty old Plymouth with a surly black grease monkey at the wheel. It made me feel real mature and experienced, you know?

  The bad part about my new job at Westbridge was how every damn minute seemed to be spent either working on cars or getting to and from work, and it was all I could do to just flop down at my apartment and grab a few winks before the damn alarm rang and it was time to get up and do it all over again. Why, it was like my old man's stupid chemical plant job! Only it took longer to get there and the pay was worse. Lots worse, in fact. Plus I was working nights and weekends, too. I suppose the smart thing would've been to find myself a place to stay in Manhattan (in fact I did sleep right there in the shop a couple times when we worked real late, or if Sylvester maybe bought us two six-packs instead of one) but somehow I knew that my deal at Westbridge was just temporary. It was one of those things you just sort of feel. Besides, the talent turnover at Colin and Barry's shop gave me lots of reasons to feel that way. Much as I liked being a Racing Wrench right in the heart of the biggest, most exciting city in the world, I knew in my heart that I was just a kid from Jersey who didn't really fit in. When you got right down to it, I belonged back at an ordinary corner gas station on the wilderness side of the George Washington Bridge. And preferably Old Man Finzio's place, since that's where Julie was. . . .

  Truth is, I wasn't seeing much of Julie at all, since I didn't really have the time, money, or motorized vehicle to take her on a proper date—not even to the Doggie Shake or the drive-in—and I wasn't so sure she would've been interested anyway. After all, she'd surely gotten a giant, economy-sized load of grief from Old Man Finzio after he caught us out behind his station, and the way her mother made a point of always answering the phone just so she could hang up whenever I called left no doubt that she'd been filled in as well. But, gee whiz, it wasn't like Julie and me were really doing anything, you know?

  Things weren't much better around my folks' house. I'd broken down and told them I got fired from the Sinclair one Sunday evening
(right in the middle of my mom's famous pineapple-glazed ham with candied yams and all the fixin's) and after that, things got pretty tough with my old man. Oh, my mom was still great—she always was—but my dad and me got into one of those deals where we couldn't be in the same room for more than thirty seconds without getting into a big enormous fight about something. Or even nothing. You remember how mad he got when I quit his stinking chemical plant job so's I could go work at Old Man Finzio's? Remember how it was such a stupid, dumb, dirty, low-life, shitty-ass excuse for a job? Well, now he was even madder on account of I wasn't working there anymore! Can you believe it? Plus he was angry that I'd got myself fired—like it was my fault, right?— and even more pissed off about how Cal and me damn near burned down my aunt's garage. As you can imagine, that had been pretty hot news all over the neighborhood (ranking just behind General Motors' announcement that they were going to offer air-conditioning on selected new models) and even his rank-and-file union buddies had heard about it. So every time I went over to cadge a free meal or get my mom to do my laundry or even just raid the damn refrigerator, my dad would start hollering at me. For no reason at all, you know? And that would get me mad right back at him, and pretty soon we'd be snarling and spitting and howling back and forth like a pair of damn alley cats. My mom knew from watching her stupid birds that there was no sense trying to separate two males of any species once they've decided not to get along (especially if they happen to be father and son) so she'd generally go down and do her ironing or sneak upstairs to fluff up the pillows a couple hundred times just to get out of the line of fire. Most usually, it'd start with something simple and stupid, like if he caught me gnawing on a cold chicken leg or wolfing down the last slice of my mom's Dutch apple pie. "So," he'd snarl, "you think you can just waltz in here anytime you feel like it and take any damn thing that strikes your fancy, don't you?"

  "What?! " I'd snarl right back, making sure he got a real good solid look at whatever I was chewing. "Y'mean I'm not even allowed to EAT here anymore?"

  "YOU earn a goddam living! Or at least that's what you CLAIM, smartass! Why don't you go out and buy your OWN damn food for a change?"

  "I DO buy my own food! All the time! I just come over now and then t'see how you and Mom are doing. That's what a son is SUPPOSED to do, isn't it?"

  "Yeah. Sure. You touch my heart. That's why I always catch you with your goddam friggin' nose in my refrigerator!"

  "Oh, so now it's YOUR refrigerator."

  "Sure, it's MY refrigerator, you insolent little piece of shit. Who the goddam hell you thinly PAID for it."

  "MOM!!" I'd yell upstairs, "YOU BETTER STAY THE HELL OUT OF YOUR HUSBAND'S REFRIGERATOR."

  "CUT THAT OUT!" he'd bellow even louder.

  "EAH, WHY SHOULD I?"

  "BECAUSE I SAID SO!"

  I must admit, he had me beat on bass resonance and sheer, windowpane-rattling volume (he'd had a lot of high-level training at his job) but whenever he threatened to shout me down, I'd simply march over to the refrigerator, take out one of his beers, lever off the cap, and drink it right there in front of him—real slow and deliberate, you know?—just so's I could watch him sputter and change colors. Sometimes he'd even haul back like he was gonna belt me, but we both knew I was too quick for him and he'd pretend to think better of it (like he was doing it for my benefit, right?) and mutter something like, "You're pretty goddam cocky for a kid that can't even hold on to a job as a goddam gas station grease monkey," while shaking his head as if I was the worst damn person in the world.

  That's when I'd wipe the last of his beer off my chin, look him right square in the eye, and agree with him. It drove him nuts. "You bet your ass I am," I'd sneer, and then walk out real quick before he forgot I was too fast for him and took a swing at me. You've probably gone through shit like that with your own family. It happens to every kid, just as sure as chicken pox and puberty.

  My buddy Cal was having family trouble, too. Seems his folks found out about Giant's Despair and Brynfan Tyddyn via the well-known family grapevine (most likely that sweet old sap-collector lady from Vermont) and they took away what was left of his MG and grounded him for the rest of the summer. Not that Cal was likely to stay grounded, but it was tougher to get around without his TC or the spare set of keys to his mom's new Packard. That Cunningham driver dropped Cal's dead MG in front of my aunt's house the Monday morning after Wilkes-Barre (right about the time I was getting fired over at the Sinclair, in fact) but a couple days later a tow truck with New York plates appeared out of nowhere and hauled it away. Not that the TC was in any shape to drive, since it was at least an engine block, connecting rod, and several other important pieces (such as fenders, headlights, windshield wipers, and a windshield for them to wipe) away from roadworthiness.

  I talked to Cal a couple times, and of course he tried to make it sound like everything was rosy and that he didn't really care much one way or another. But if you listened close, you couldn't miss the hollow ring to his voice. Like people whispering in the hallways of intensive care wards and such. "Everything's gonna be fine, Buddy. This'll blow over. No problem at all. You'll see."

  The screwy part is I believed him. I knew how desperately Cal wanted—needed—to go racing again, and that he'd do whatever it took to get himself back behind the wheel. But I was realistic enough to know it wouldn't be anytime soon, no matter what Cal said. Truth is, I was feeling pretty much alone in the world, what with Cal serving time at Castle Carrington and Julie more or less off-limits and Big Ed sulking all the time about those S.C.M.A. membership committee assholes who didn't want anything to do with him (at least when he wasn't busy sulking about how Carlo Sebastian wouldn't sell him a Ferrari or that there wasn't anybody he trusted to take care of his cars at the Sinclair anymore) not to mention how my folks' house had turned into a battleground of ugly skirmishes between my dad and me. The only thing left in my life was working at Westbridge and getting to and from work at Westbridge, and that is not what you could call a well-rounded existence.

  So I decided to drop over by Butch's place, just to see how he was doing and ask if maybe he'd like to join me for the trip to Grand Island. After all, he had a car (albeit not much of one) and besides, I thought he might enjoy it. Hell, just getting away from Marlene for a few days figured to do him a world of good. Plus he could pick up and go at the drop of a hat because he didn't have much of anything else to do. Which was really pretty sad if you stopped to think about it.

  Butch and Marlene lived in an ugly little clapboard house behind the chemical plant where my dad worked, and it had pretty much gone downhill ever since Butch got hurt (not that it was ever anything out of Better Homes and Gardens before that). Truth be known, Mean Marlene was not what you could call a real persnickety housekeeper—not hardly!—and Butch didn't help any on account of he could never resist any motorized contraption that needed "just a little fixing up" to be "good as new" again. So Butch and Marlene's front lawn looked like one of Big Ed's scrap yards, what with cracked engine blocks, seized compressors, burnt-out space heaters, rusty outboard motors, orphaned hand-crank washing machines, and even a couple big industrial wall fans scattered all over, each and every one waiting for Butch to find the spare time (and parts) to do "just a little fixing up" so's they'd be "good as new" again.

  Marlene was gone that day (she'd got herself a job waiting tables someplace) and I found Butch out on his rickety front porch with the guts of a used carburetor spread out on a three-legged card table he had propped up against the railing. He seemed real pleased to see me—he even smiled!—and when I asked him how he'd like to go up to the races with me, he damn near jumped out of his wheelchair. "Hell, yes!" he whooped, slamming his lump hand down so hard that little brass carburetor parts jumped every which way. "Why, I been stuck in this friggin' place s'damn long I'm about t'go stark raving buggy! Marlene drives me nuts. Sittin' on this damn porch drives me nuts. The stink off that friggin' chemical plant drives me nuts. Hell, it's about burnt the d
amn hair right outta my nostrils. See?" He tilted his head back to show me the inside of his nose.

  "So you wanna go?"

  "You bet your damn ass I do!"

  "That's great," I told him. "Just great. Why, it'll be just like the old days, you know?" Not that Butch and me really had much in the way of Old Days. At least not road trips. About the farthest we'd ever gone was across the Williamsburg Bridge to pick up some hydraulic jack parts in Brooklyn. But it sounded good.

  About then Butch's old Ford came clattering up the street with Mean Marlene at the wheel, and right away I began having second thoughts. I mean, no way was that heap going to, ah, blend in with the polished-up MGs and Jaguars and whatnot at Grand Island. And besides the cosmetic shortcomings, it was banging and popping something awful and listing over to starboard like a garbage scow taking on water. Looked like a couple busted leaves in the right rear spring (or maybe they'd just gone soft and sagged a few inches) but whatever it was, it made that old Ford look pretty damn comical. At least if you weren't planning to take a cross-country road trip in the damn thing. "Say," I mumbled, giving the Ford a serious professional eyeballing, "you think that old crate'll make it?"

  Butch's eyes narrowed down to slits. "Hell yesthat car'll make it," he snarled. "Why wouldn't it? Y'fergettin' who put that damn thing t'gether? Y'fergettin' who taught you every goddam thing you THINK you know about automobiles?"