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.”