The Yellow Jalopy: Part III

Life is but a car ride, flashing by.

Haven’t read Part I? Catch up now:

Part III:

Dust sifted and rattled in brittle embers from the roof fir laid chevron as the Man swung the horizontal-planked shed door shut behind him. Large serrated foliage from canopying hickory that sheltered the property piled in batches and that were swept inside the shed and crossbred and amalgamated with smokey asters and salmon cosmos. Pedals of lobelias dulling in cobalt and without ivory-pearl sheen kneaded and mashed with the pedals of peach begonias chewed and infused blueish red that left streaks of magenta under the fir tattered sweep.

A pendant lightbulb that hung from the middle beam of the chevron roof swung a vacillating bask and seesawed a lambent marigold of pendulating fire that shifted between their faces. Bright orbs glowed then disappeared like moons that floated galaxies apart in dark matter.

As the orange bulb cast sandstone across the darkened shed, the Man lifted the rusted torque wrench from the small chest on the ground with his greased left hand then reached up with his right hand, the cuff to his heat-curled red-checkered flannel pulled back until it tightened at the base where his large forearm inflated and the leathered skin stained with grease and pores filled with lubricant of lithium, polyurea, and grit. The Man looked Bernie up and down with eyes aflame of pallid fire. He stepped forward and flicked the tip of his nose with his massive thumb as he pursed his dried lips, then spat out his chew over the bell crank lever and support bracket trashed in the bin to the right of his Red Wing Iron Rangers, laces frayed, boot tongues limp.

Bernie's hand gestured back to his TR6's soft convertible top on the floor, with the reflective strips flashing tiger-colored incandescence as the bulb swayed.

"The car? What happened to my—"

"I goddamn heard what yous said." Said the Man as he walked closer to Bernie with the wrench.

Titian rust flaked off the metal thumbscrew as he inched closer, the fixed jaw fanged in tangerine decay. The Man's broad arm reached past Bernie as he laid the torque wrench down on top of the brick-red workbench. His immense frame bent over, and the fir shed groaned. His fingernails were beset with yellow, blue, and black bruises that laid upon swollen fingers that pried open the small chest's lid upon which the rusted torque wrench had just sat. His hand dug in, then reappeared with two ice-cold Hamms.

He tossed the blue and gold frosty beer can to Bernie, grabbed and flipped a small bucket from the corner, then sat on it and cracked his beer.

"Sit down on that step stool behind ya."

Bernie did.

"Open your beer while it's cold now."

Bernie did. He took the cold brew in as his eyes fixated on the Man across from him.

"Yous and Mila are getting serious, I hear?"

"Yessir. Well, I— I seriously hope that's so."

The Man took another gulp while he shook his head.

"Well, shit, beats the hell outta me why, but she likes ya, son. I sure as hell wish she didn't. I know who your father is, what he's done. I reckon he's a changed man now." The Man said as he chewed on his beer. "Is he?"

"He's the best damn father this side the Mississippi," Bernie said. "Yessir, I'd say he's changed plenty." Bernie chugged his beer, crushed it with his palm, then lobbed it over the Man's head into an arch that banged off the inside of the iron bin and clanked against the bell crank level covered in spittle.

The Man's posture straightened upright.

"And even if he hadn't, he'd still be my father. Famiglia su tutto." Bernie said as he stood, casting his shadow over the Man and leaving his boyish shadow in the dark corners of that shed. "And I mean everything. You don't want me around? Fine, I'm outta here. Put my damn car back together, or I'll take the wheelbarrow in the corner and wheel that shit all the way back to Canton myself."

Bernie strode past in a fury and kicked open the thick, fir-paneled door, leaves scattered, and the evening sky bled in. A smile crept slowly across the Man's face.

"I see why she likes you, son." The Man said.

"What?"

"Family is everything to me too." The Man said, reaching into the chest again. "Close the damn door." He pulled out another frosty can as he rose.

Bernie stood in the door frame, silhouetted and dumbfounded forth stars casting across darkening amethyst.

"You want to hear how I'm about to hoon this piece of shit jalopy into the whip it's meant to be and launch this sucker faster than a Dodge Hellcat by Thanksgiving or not?"

"I- thought—"

"And my name's Ross, by the way."

Bernie shook his head and smiled.

"But my friends call me Ross, so you can keep calling me Sir," Ross said with an etching smile as he tossed Bernie the frosty can. "Come on, have a seat. Let's get another beer in before the ladies swing 'round. The Mrs. only thinks I've had one today, and I'd like to keep her mind idle there."

Bernie cracked open the beer and smiled. "Here's to the first one of the day."

"Yeah," Ross said. "Yeah, you'll do. To the first of the day. Now, have you ever thought about adding a new camshaft or a pair of side-draft carburetors?"

Opaque curling fingers steam from factory smokestacks and dawdle in the pale grey skies. Elongated leafless bones snaked off dormant palmetto and buckeye stripped in Ohio's winter folly and smoked out in fragrant dusty wafts that warmed the senses but dulled winter just a bit more.

Bernie sat in the back of a car and stared straight ahead through the windshield, void of emotion. His head bobbled with every bump in the road, but his eyes remained forward. He blinked and let himself feel. His eyes drifted to the rearview mirror, and saw a massive line of cars stretching behind him on the highway.

He looked to his right and grabbed a young woman's hand, brought it to his mouth, and kissed it. Her diamond ring beamed as her tears fell luster.

"Mila, honey, how are you doing? We're almost there." Bernie said.

She said nothing but cried and buried her head into his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her body and pulled her close, kissed her forehead, and soothed her as best he could.

"I miss him already, too. Wish I could have another beer with him right now."

Mila looked up at him, beads of water laced her eyes. "He would have liked that, Bernie." She wiped her eyes clean. "He would have really liked that."

A murder of crows cawed in barren buckeye. Grim skies reached for the cemetery to collect its equity and loomed over the undulated, grassy graveyard. Over a hundred men, women, and children stood in wake.

As they gathered around Ross's gravesite, Bernie looked up to a large group of men who walked up behind the wake. Bernie's father stood before them, their thick, long coats draped to the soil, and rain slid off the brim of their oil-slicked hats, which they all took off and held to their chests.

Mila squeezed Bernie's arm and smiled deeply into his eyes. "They came." She whispered.

"They sure did."

"Is that some of the Cosa Nos— sorry. Is that them, though?"

"Something like that. Every one of those men had his car in your father's garage over the last three years. They came running in droves once they heard how he fixed up my TR6."

"They came all the way from Cleveland, though, that's so far. I don't know how to thank them. I—"

"What did I tell you on the first date we went on? After your father fixed my car. Remember what I said?"

"I do."

"What did I say?"

"Famiglia su tutto."

He grabbed her and pulled her close. "And I meant it."

"Give him, o Lord, your peace and let your eternal light shine upon him." The Priest began.

Thick palmated buckeye bask in spring sun. Northern cardinal chirp as Bernie stepped out of his brick single story that stood in a line down South Hammond Street in Canton, Ohio.

Past his lush green hedgerows, Bernie opened the door to his yellow TR6 parked in the driveway in front of a Ford Econoline E100. He looked behind him to the front door atop two small cement steps and waved to Mila and his two small children, waving below her waistline. Their frantic little hands waved until Mila pulled them back and let the screen door shut them inside. Bernie smiled, got in his TR6, and closed the door shut.

Soft-top rolled back, thick and curly tendrils danced in the wind. Bernie's arm rested atop the thin, slick, wooden steering wheel with the pearl inlets. At the intersection and behind the dark tint of his aviators, Bernie's eyes fixated in front of him at carmine pitching on the span wire. He smiled, knowing life was moving in the direction he had intended.

The light flicked emerald, and Bernie's foot hit the gas peddle. Back tires spun and found traction, then sent him into the middle of the intersection. Verdant shone down upon him, the TR6 steadfast beneath him, then the blaring sound of a horn to his right and large glass eyes and a metal grill and—

Everything went black.

To Be Continued

Don’t stop now! The final installment of the Yellow Jalopy series is just a click away…

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