Huck's Trucks (Part 1)

One day I was driving to Geogia from North Carolina in my used Hyundai to get a used Jetta TDI that I bought on eBay. I knew the Hyundai's transmission was going, but I thought I would at least make it to Georgia and get a few hundred bucks on a trade in.

I was wrong.

Just past the South Carolina border, I heard a sound like a pterodactyl protecting its young while simultaneously, the accelerator became about as responsive as Stephen Hawking. Fortunately, I had practiced quickly engaging the hazard switch and pulled onto the left-hand emergency shoulder without incident. I was lucky that the driver behind me was alert and didn’t even give me the finger or anything. He really seemed quite unfazed by the whole ordeal.

After the dust cleared, I celebrated my escape from the jaws of death briefly before confirming that the transmission had in fact blown. Third, fourth, and fifth gears were toast, but first and second were still hanging in there.

So during a break in the traffic, I made my way over to the exit ramp and eventually into a convenience store parking lot. There were many middle fingers and other gestures of encouragement during this maneuver.

Inside, I bought a bottled water, a Slim Jim brand meat snack and asked the cashier if there was a service garage near by. Conveniently, and to my surprise, there was a place called Huck’s Trucks just down the road. Now this was truly a convenience store. They had everything I needed.

I drove west, less than a mile down the deserted, rural state road as the emerging sun drank the last of the morning dew. I pulled into Huck’s at about 8:30 am.

As one would imagine, there were dilapidated jalopies littered about – tires, rust, and weeds. Situated asymetrically upon a peeling, light blue building with faded, 1970’s cigarette ads, were two corroded, metal doors. The building sat uncomfortably amongst the weeds.

I chose door number 2 and walked right in. There was a grubby office with the very first personal computer ever made. It was purchased before they had invented those plastic keyboard covers, so none of the letters on the keyboard could be recognized from decades of dirty, illiterate fingers pecking about. There were boxes turning to dust underneath stacks of paper – invoices, receipts, magazines, and stripped bolts.

Each wall was lined with piles stacked neck high and each stack was topped with a greasy car part. The walls were faded and discolored, but there were silhouettes of white where tools once hung in some more organized and optimistic past.

The garage was off to the right from the “office”, through a doorway which stood slanted under a black and white photo copy of a signed Dale Earnhardt photo. Through this I walked and thus stood before two of Huck’s finest.

There was a brown skinned man, probably of African decent holding a wrench over the weary engine of a Monte Carlo fitted with a couple of bubbly and crooked tinted-window squares on the rear window. Two legs of blue Dickies with enormous, soiled work boots stuck out from underneath.

Apparently, the typical interracial work-place verbal jousting was in progress to which I inferred that the other guy was of European decent. My deduction was confirmed correct when a hairy, red-faced guy appeared from below to add emphasis to his belief that, "Black folks just don’t know nothin’ ‘bout no NASCAR."

“Why we want to drive around in circles anyway? You can’t even get outta yo driveway wifout hittin’ d’wall.” He looked at me and offered a big, toothy smile like we were friends from childhood. Then he laughed like Fran Dresher and launched a spray of slobber that could have misted a fern. He tried to use his teeth to clean up the mess he had just made on his chin, but had to assist with his sleeve.

I could see his name was Earl from the hand-written, iron-on label of his untucked, green work shirt. The other guy’s shirt introduced Burley. Presently, Burley acknowledged me and said, “Whatcha need?”

His wife/sister must’ve cut his hair – probably with one of those Ronco vacuum deals, ‘cause I don’t think he was Amish. He didn’t so much wear a beard as he only shaved once per week and this was around day five. The hair went from just under his eyes, all the way around his neck (which really was red) and down to his whiteish undershirt, where longer tufts sprang bravely forth.

I said, “Uh yeah, anybody want a car? The transmission’s shot, but other than that it runs great.” Burley’s interest had been piqued so I continued, “Fifty bucks and a ride to the airport and it’s yours.”

My Dad Never Changed Diapers

A guy came in to use the urinal one down from me. It is an unspeakable faux pas to use the one immediately adjacent if a farther one is available. It is also considered suspect to talk, but this guy was secure in his manhood as he had just had his first baby – a girl!

“Man, it really changes everything. I was kinda hoping for a boy, but the good Lord blessed me with a normal, healthy baby, so I can’t complain. It’s scary though, ya know? I think about how sixteen years from now I’ll have to answer the door with a gun to scare off the guys trying to date her.”

I attempted to put his mind at ease, “Maybe she’ll be fat and ugly – or a lesbian … or both.” I smiled and tried to not look toward his penis.

He continued, unscathed, “Have you seen the shit that comes outta those nasty things? I mean Jesus, it’s like … black tar … or some kinda epoxy or something. I can’t believe that I am even expected to do that shit. My Dad never changed diapers. I remember one time my Mom was sick, so after a lot of discussion, my Dad had to help me with my bath … I was like six or eight.

He looked toward my penis.

“So he starts getting soap in my mouth and shampoo in my eyes and I’m screaming bloody murder and finally my Mom comes in all feverish with bedhead and says, ‘Never mind. I’ll do it.’ all disgusted that he’s so helpless.

He thought for a moment,“See, I should do that – that thing where men act like they don’t know how to use a can opener and shit. Man I would just sit back, drink beer, and watch football all day. Instead I gotta get up every other night and feed her from a bottle that was pumped outta my wife’s tit. If I was supposed to feed the baby, I would have tits, you know what I mean?”

He paused and looked over at me so I felt obliged to respond, “Well, you do have tits – it’s just that they’re useless.”

“Ahh, ha, ha, ha, ha – true dat. I know, I know. I gotta stop with the late night pizzas.” He pat his stomach as he spun around and left without washing his hands.

Zipping up, I noted that he said “true dat” even though he was European-American. I’m not sure that’s right. Is it racist to think that it’s not ok for gentrified Caucasian’s to speak in Ebonics?

I don’t know, but it does seem awkward when it happens.

Gold For Duck

The Queen laid her staff on the ground near the fire. She leaned over the body, whispering recklessly and spatting incidentally into the ear. When she was done, she rose intentionally and fixed her headdress and jewels. Her nurse helped adjust her hair and brushed the ashes from her shoulders.

“Keep still and listen!” she commanded and looked out of the corner of her eyes, her tongue searching molars for a clue.

Madress, the nurse, spoke quickly and surely, “There is no ghost. You must leave now. The dogs will be coming and you must have heart if we are to make the storm.” She picked up the staff and offered it to the Queen.

The Queen looked through Madress to the stone wall, where moss and lichen crawled down the rocks as ivy crawled up. The hole in the wall exposed dark trees and a green liquid – an unnatural amalgam of earth and plant.

The sky pulsed with contention, on one side violent, with patches of steel blue turning indigo in the dusk. She took the staff and strode coarsely through the hole, stopping midway, “I will call for you when I reach the band.” She turned back and looked at Madress to read her face. “I will expect you to ride. It will turn the tide and quiet the storm.”

With that, she lifted the staff into the hole and parted the dark liquid, which engulfed behind her, leaving her clothes and jewels in a pile on the dirt. Madress picked them up and quickly put them on, replacing her traditional smock with the majestic garb. She could see in the reflection of the dark liquid that they suited her. She was much more beautiful than the Queen. She put her smock into the fire and the flames leapt in commemoration.

From the edge of the wood, there came a sound – a sniffing and rustling of leaves. Madress clicked her teeth and the dog came submissively forth, habitually licking the air and showing its teeth. It sat by her feet, looking up to its master.

Madress began collecting the misplaced stones and replacing them in their former abode. The dog puked a sticky, black phlegm that she used as mortar. The stones fit absolutely and when the moss and vines were replaced, no one would suspect that this was the spot. Never would one believe that the most potent and grand Geolith in all the valley was in the back alley of a busy market, frequented regularly by the King’s chef to trade gold for duck and silver for wine.