It was dark. He quietly shut the door to the house And went out through the gate. The temperature was a bit on the chilly side, But that would be best. The sky, a mottled grey, Looked heavy with rain. He could smell the grass from the previous days mowing. All things in preparation for the trip had been done; Packed, serviced, tuned up. The dooryard light hummed And the gravel crunched underfoot out to the shop, A small block building with three heavy wood sliding doors. He noticed the flakes of white paint On the dark concrete standing out in the dim light. He shouldered the big door open, And while he stepped aside the welder and rear tire, Reaching up to turn on the single bulb, The aromas of the garage mixed together to form One unique smell. Gasoline, Forty-weight, Exhaust, Ninety-weight, Anti-freeze, All enveloped him like a heavy blanket. He knowingly looked down while he turned the switch, The bulb chasing the dark into the corners And bathing the workbench and his creation. As he opened his eyes he drank in what he saw, Parked there. Slumbering like a cat. His coupe. His hot-rod. Born of his mind and hands. The creature he built. All the parts from scattered sources stitched together to form a car. Not just any car. A hot-rod. A hot-rod built to reflect a by-gone era. All the parts older than he by half a century or more. Like some sort of purposeful relic. A relic he drove. A relic he would drive. For today was a special day- Road Trip. He quickly scanned the underside of the coupe for leaks and saw none. This was good. As he walked around the front side He affectionately touched the cowl- The rounded corners of the grill shell, Chosen and put there by his own means. Parts from separate ancestry coming together To form a more pleasing shape than the predecessor. It looked good. He reached the drivers door and unlatched the car from the inside. He pulled the door open, Ducking his head into the chopped top Sliding between the large steering wheel And door jamb to sit in the seat. He reached out, Closed the door Latched himself in. He found the ends of the seatbelts and fastened them with a solid click. He sat back, Stretching his legs out to the toe board and Gripped the wheel with both hands, Tipping his head down a bit to see out the windshield below the visor. It felt good, This coupe. Molded and built entirely around his own body. Tailor made for him, and he was the tailor. Everything fit right, As it should. He reached down and pulled the choke, Depressing the spoon throttle pedal slightly And lifted the safety cover on the ignition switch with a compact click. Deftly pushing in the starter button and the starter whirred briefly before The engine barked to life. He let it idle a bit high for a minute, Listening to the rumble of each cylinder exit the twin exhaust pipes. The burbling sound smoothing out as he pressed the pedal down half way And pushing in the choke to release it. The engine leaned out and smoothed out even more, Til when he let off the gas it idled down to a small purr. Nice. The beast was ready. It wasnt really a beast in every sense of the word. It may be beastly looking to some. Perhaps to the untrained eye. It wasnt overpowered or ill-handling, It was a bit rough around the edges. Unpolished. But he liked it that way. It wasnt built to please any one else, only him. Sure there were things he would change, Maybe spend more time on. But when you dreamed of having a hot-rod your whole life, and you get so close, you want to be on the road. And this is what he was doing. He tested the brakes with a couple pumps. Felt good. Pushing in the clutch and snicked the gearbox into reverse, Slowly increasing the revs with his right foot and lifting up on the left- The coupe slowly crept from the garage. The shop. The womb. As he turned out and stopped, He slid the coupe into first gear. Reaching down he pulled the switch for the lights, The two beams flashed to illuminate the white gravel. The barn silhouetted against the sky, The light of day creeping out. The driveway rolled underneath and the pipes laughed in anticipation. One slowdown at the end of the driveway and a quick check for traffic. Seeing none he laid into it on the road, A little chirp of rubber, A ping of a stone off the exhaust. He rolled quickly up the hill to the east, Catching second in a one-two shuffle. Now he crested the hill, and the valley lay ahead. Shifting into high the engine leveled off, Set in the groove. The road a grey ribbon before him, Materializing out ahead of the lights. The adventure commenced. The grey gives away to pinkish orange in the east. Thats where hes headed. East. He can see the heavy clouds rolling southwards From his vantage point in the low coupe. Squatting like in a cave, The low dark roof just overhead. The campfire cackles with eight cylinders at the stop sign. Time for the hunt . He rears off. The low guttural sound increasing in tempo, volume and pressure. He hears the curve of torque and power start to level off And lets the motor settle back into the groove. The exhaust burbling. He wonders; why do exhausts burble? Its so cliché, but you cant escape it- Flatheads burble- They always have- They always will. The road rolls underneath. Which road? It doesnt matter. He didnt map out the route. He just knows east is the direction. Maybe some south, Maybe some north, But always east. The two-lanes, The small towns, The hamlets, The bergs. Crossing the tracks where the trains dont run anymore. Slowing down by schools where swings are gone, just the frame of pipes guarding the little pools of kid swept gravel. Gas stations with no pumps and no life. Why does he travel the lonely Frostian byways? To remember, To imagine. To visualize the attendant squeegee-ing the glass of a long sedan, The owner smiling pertly under her bonnet. To maybe shake the dust and cobwebs loose With the sound of exhaust pipes, To stir memory. To spark a moment. He quietly rumbles through the towns, One after anther. Some more desolate than others. Some clinging to the past, Some given up. The roads between he savors, The long stretches of straight, The tight curves, The dips and rises. His coupe gallops and leaps to ride the serpent of tar. While the sun creeps up, And the clouds roll away, He sees the red ball jump up through the trees. The wet road mists up in the valleys And he pierces it.
Jay, on the way home I was thinking I needed to pm you to check up on your progress. Looks like you have been typing for days with one finger........
HOLY FREEKIN SHIT JAY - how far east are ya going? say new england?? i know it'll make it, you built it!! that's some cool reading man, i'm waiting for chapter ll....... mike
after the first stanza i was going to remind you how gay you are.. again.. but after the whole thing... awesome... you may have missed your calling .. you magnificient bastard. I'll be in the garage if you need me!
Mine; "The driveway rolled underneath and the pipes laughed in anticipation." That was awesome, Thanks! Glad to see I wasn't the only one with goose-bumps.
I had lunch with him and Mrs. Nosurf today. I did not realize I was in the company of an important poet at that time.
Saw his wife at Salina KKOA, but no Capote say more of a Robert Frost just as good if not better, Frost never wrote about hot rods!!
Not picking it apart, nice poem, but what are "bergs"? I'm guessing you meant 'burbs, as in suburbs, unless it's icebergs. Spoken word night on the HAMB? Thanks, Kurt
This just in from Wikipedia: "Burg" is USA slang for "town" and often used to form USA place names, e.g. Williamsburg, due to German immigrants starting a USA habit of pronouncing English "-burgh" as "-burg".
Jay: That was F********G bitchin man. I printed it out and showed it to the NON CAR folks in my office and they all loved it. My Secretary said to me after reading it. "Now I can see why you love those old cars so much" I thought that was cool as hell. You sir are a POET. BB
The Jalopy Journal
