Six Bad Things_ A Novel - Charlie Huston [45]
—A BMW 1600?
—Yeah.
—Oh, Hank, not this piece of crap?
I scoot up into the seat. Dad has stopped where my car is parked.
—Yeah.
—How much did you pay for that?
—Four.
—And you drove it from San Diego?
—Yeah.
—You’re lucky you didn’t kill yourself in that thing.
—It’s not that bad.
—Like hell it isn’t.
He sits behind the wheel of his perfectly restored 1962 British racing green MGB and stares in horror at my wreck.
—Well, let’s get it over to the shop and out of sight.
I get out, start my car, and follow him over to Custom Specialty Motors.
CSM SERVICES and restores classic, exotic, and performance automobiles. Says so right on the sign. This is the business Dad dreamed of owning his whole life, the one he created and built over the last twenty years after he threw in the towel as hotshot mechanic for a series of high-end dealerships. His customers are mostly middle-aged men who finally have the money to buy the toys they craved in their youth, but who lack the mechanical aptitude to keep them running.
He unlocks the big rolling garage door and I drive into the shop. He pulls the MG in behind me, closes and locks the door, and switches on the overheads. Fluorescent light bounces off of some very expensive paint jobs. I get out of my crappy car and go look at a 1953 Corvette Roadster, cream with red interior.
—Wow.
—Look at this mess.
I look over my shoulder. Dad has the hood of the BMW up and is peering into the disordered engine compartment.
—Jeez, Hank, your plugs are filthy, there’s corrosion on the battery cables, the gaskets on the carb are rotting, there’s oil everywhere.
He grabs a socket wrench from one of the big rolling tool cabinets and starts pulling the plugs.
—Dad, you don’t have to do that.
—There is no way you are driving this car anywhere without a complete tune-up.
—Dad.
—No way. Now, you go home and get out of sight.
He’s right. His customers may not know how to change the oil on all this steel candy, but most are retired and they love to come around and get underfoot while Dad is working. He goes into the office and comes back with a CSM cap and windbreaker.
—Here.
I slip them on, get into the MGB, grab his sunglasses off the dash, and put those on as well.
He stands next to the car, not moving to open the door for me.
—Hey! Hey, we haven’t talked about the Giants yet. Can you believe the season they had?
I know. I know they dominated the National League West, and won their first World Series since they moved to San Francisco. I didn’t get to watch or listen to a single game, but I know.
—Yeah, I haven’t seen much baseball, Dad.
—Oh.
—But maybe you can tell me about it later.
—Yeah, sure. At the house maybe.
He goes over to the door and pushes the big black button that rolls it up.
—Well, take it easy in that thing.
—No problem, Dad.
I drive home, this town’s most infamous son, dressed as my father.
MOM WANTED to skip her volunteer day at the elementary school where she tutors special-ed kids. I told her it would be better if she and Dad did everything as normally as possible until I left. The specter of my departure made her start to cry again, but she went. Now I’m alone.
When the landlord cleared out my apartment in New York, he sent the stuff to my folks. Mom donated some things to Goodwill, but I’m able to find a couple boxes of my old clothes. The jeans and thermal top I pull on are snug, but they’ll do while the clothes I was wearing go through the washer. In the meantime I page Tim some more and try to distract myself by watching Monday Quarterback.
The guys on TV are breaking down just how bad Miami is without Miles Taylor when the phone rings. I reach for it. Stop myself. I’ll let the machine pick up. If it’s Tim he’ll let me know. The machine picks up and whoever is calling hangs up.
OK, not Tim.
The phone rings again. The machine picks up. The caller disconnects. Maybe it is Tim and he doesn’t want to talk into the machine