Art & Inspiration The Friday Nite Cereal….ehrrrrr, uhhhh… “Serial.” Part 8

Serial: A work appearing in parts at pre-determined intervals. More at installment.
Installment. Issued as part of a consecutively published and indefinitely continued series. Serials and installments used on major radio stations in the 1930’s, 1940’s and some of the 1950’s. Radio programs such as Dick Tracy (1934-1948), The Shadow (1931-1954), Amos n’ Andy, (1930-1952), Fibber McGee & Molly, (1935-1959), The Great Gildersleeve (a spin-off from Fibber McGee, 1941-1950), Buck Rogers (1932-1941) and in 1940, Superman rode the airwaves into everyone’s home three times a week in the serial until 1951. There were countless other serials on the radios back in the day…way before television ever found its way into homes. Families gathered around the radio to listen to a serial much like today’s families gather to watch a certain continuing television program…
This serial requires your intrigue, your imagination, your sound effects and your indulgence.





PART EIGHT – Blade…Deuce owner.



Blade was a smart-mouth, learned it at an early age…good-looking, too. Beginning in junior high he picked up a habit of wearing black clothes…guess maybe he was a Johnny Cash wanna-be…at least he learned from a master…and in high school, always wore a black leather jacket and a pair of sunglasses, either over his eyes or on top of his head…the dark lenses matched his demeanor. The engineer boots he wore this day were scuffed and a chalky black…he liked to think of them as his lucky boots…he’d never lost a race when wearing them…would he lose this one? He wasn’t really sure about that and that final scenario wasn’t fully known…yet. He wasn’t going to take any chances.



Blade was more intelligent than nearly all of his high school mates…excelled in all subjects, but was a gear head even then…and a bit conceited…always spouting about how great he was, how no one could do what he did. Maybe he was right. He’d built a genuine old timey hot rod from magazines he’d scrounged up in used book stores - fifties and early sixties mags…when hot rods were really hot rods, not the over-polished stuff at the rod runs/events these days. Since he opened his shop, he’d built quite a few hot rods and even re-done some muscle cars over the last few years…fast cars, in that shop in Omaha he started immediately after graduation from Flatfield Community High School in 1973. Blade seemed to be a visionary of sorts in the area…and was the guy that could actually start trends.



He always thot old…perhaps ‘traditional' would be a better word…figured old timey stuff would make a come-back…it’s just that not everyone was ready for it. The 59-A flathead in his Deuce was built, to the hilt…Ardun heads, the dual-pots on a Navarro manifold among other tweaks…it was a very hot flattie…albeit an “antiquated piece” of an engine in 1978. Quick, too. The heads of the engine didn’t quite fit in the engine bay and the hood sides had to be relieved to allow them to slip over those massive valve covers…the stock louvers had been replaced with smooth hood sides and the two humps had been expertly welded to the sides to hide those large valve covers…if you didn’t know the car, the hood bulges could be overlooked…and those that didn’t know Blade surely didn’t know what kind of engine resided in the coop.



Blade was smart…and headed in the right direction, most 24 year-olds have no idea where they’re going in life. His biggest problem…an attitude, and he had a good one…doesn’t everyone that has an IQ of 140 have an attitude? Question was: Is he smart enuff to back out of this race knowing its consequences? Would he? Being a year older than either Zack Franklen or his pal- Conner Warren, didn’t necessarily make him smarter than either, altho he figured he was…besides, Zack was no slouch when it came to building great engines…Conner was pretty damned good too…his J-2 Olds could stay with the best of them in any street race…and beat most.


Stubby was relieved when he saw Blade pull up in front of the house…the dual exhausts pumped warm condensation out the back of the jet blak 1956 truk…he revved it up a couple of times and the tinny Ford exhaust sound rattled the neighbor’s windows. He loved to do that…got them damned dogs next door all excited….that last hit of the throttle got them good…they came charging the chain link fence, teeth bared, growling, snarling…almost came through it. Blade rolled up the partially opened window, turned off the key, slipped the four-speed into reverse and exited the lowered, chopped F-100. The wide whites, with small ‘caps, were looking a bit dingy becuz of all the rain…he didn’t like driving the truk dirty, but with all the rain lately, really didn’t have much choice. He slipped his foot past the running board, slid out and gently closed the door. He swung the key ring around his index finger twice and pocketed the keys. Dark wavy hair glistened in the damp air, sunglasses spotted with water. The shiney rivet-headed leather jacket he wore repelled the late afternoon moisture. Taking a last puff, he flipped the cigarette at the two German Shepherds trying their damndest to claw through the fence and get at him. Blade knew if he egged the dogs on more they’d eventually head for the hole they’d dug under the fence, on the other side of the lawn, and get out, racing around the house to get at him…but, by that time, he’d be behind his own fence…and headed for the garage…the dogs would raise hell for a while, sniff around, and then head for parts unknown, and they always did. His neighbor, Mac Senton would have to put up more big money to bail the dogs out of dog jail that night, and the dog patrol would always get them, every one of the kennel crew knew the dogs well. Blade hated his neighbor…becuz he would never get the dogs to shut up…especially at nite…just let them bark, watching from the bedroom window as Blade came home late…he was sure the feeling with his neighbor was probably mutual. He pushed the sunglasses farther up on his head and opened the back yard gate.



“Hey B,” Stubby shouted and stepped away from the garage door, “…bout damn time, where ya been, pokin’ them girlfriends of yours again?"



“Take a fly…a huge fly, Stubs. You knew I’d be here. Get that door open. It’s time."



Time to go, time to put up…or forever shut up. Stubby pulled the door open, dragging it across the cracked concrete and hooked the backside of it into a latch…he walked back into the garage, reached over the Deuce and pulled the chain. Darkness shrouded the little ‘32, closed around it -- almost like the little coop wanted to snuggle back in the farthest corner of the small garage…stay there…it was cold and rainy outside. The humid, gray, clouded daylight crept thru the opening, intermittently twinkled off the rechromed grille and lowered headlites. A name – “Blade’s Runner,” painted with a dagger slicing thru the word ‘Runner,’ lettered on each side of the cowl, glowed in white, yellow and red. Stubby stood back and waited, his job now done for the day. Blade reached in the window, opened the door, planted his butt on cold blak vinyl rolls & pleats, pushed the floor shift on the ’39 LaSalle-geared tranny into neutral and fired the flathead. It cackled thru straight pipes as it warmed.



“Make sure that gate’s closed when I get out on the street, Stubs,” Blade growled, “don’t want them damned dogs waiting for us when we roll back in tonight…they’re damned smart…don’t need to give them a chance to take out a piece of me in the dark.”



“You got it,” Stubby shouted over the din of the exhaust. “Yep. I’m thinkin’ they don’t like you at all," a sly smirk appeared at the edges of his mouth...he'd really like to see that...see Blade trying to get away from them. He chuckled openly...good thing Blade couldn't hear it. "Yeah, they'd love to tear out of piece of your ass."



The black coop rolled effortlessly, but noisily, out of the driveway, dropped off the curb cut ever so gently, the bottom of the running board only one small quarter of an inch above the concrete...the back end rolled off and Blade and stopped in the middle of the street, waiting. “Hurry it up, Stubby.”



“Want me to drive?” Stubby shouted, pulling the gate across the old concrete, latched it closed.


“Hell no, I don’t,” Blade replied. “You need to jump out at the liquor store to grab us a sixer.”



It was about a thirty minute roll from Blade’s home to get to the Iowa/Nebraska bridge…on old Highway 92…the bridge was in sad need of repair…the old trestle-style construction was deteriorating rapidly…the salt used on Nebraska streets in the winter was slowly disintegrating the bridge’s highway platform and the whole bridge was now nothing more that a rust colored conglomeration of ugly red I-beams. The blak three-window stood out like a sore thumb as it rumbled across the 1/2 mile long bridge…the whitewalls on the coop collecting the wet highway dirt, getting duller by the minute.



“Damn,” Blade grumbled. “I hate getting them new whitewalls dirty.”



“Don’t have much choice,” Stubby said, trying to be heard above the roar of the flattie, and the exhausts. “Unless you want to call it off.”



“That ain’t likely to happen,” Blade countered, a scowl on his face and fire in his eyes. “Not by me anyway. Hey, you enjoying this ride? Bring that up again and you’ll be using thumb power to get yourself back home. Besides, it looks like you’re going to spend some time cleaning the bottom of this old car next week.”



“What the hell for?”



“Want it ready for Brick…he and a couple of his pals are coming in some time next week to check out the shop…want it to look good for them…oh, and the shop too. Could be some big bucks for us if they like what they see.”



“What is there to see, in your shop…four walls, couple of counters, tools, three cars in the early build stages, a lift and the machinery…not much there,” Stubby said. “We ain’t even got a used muscle car in there to plant our butts on.”



“Yeah, I know, but investors are investors…got to show them what they are getting for what they’re willing to put up.”



“These the guys you met at the Nats?”



“Yeah, they’re looking to sink some money in a shop in middle America…said they want to have a “rolling start” …and my place already has plenty of customers,” Blade said, glancing over at Stubby, the speedo and then back to the hiway….55 mph was just too damned slow…he kicked it up a bit.



Sounded like way too much work for Stubby…but since he was Blade’s best pal, and didn’t want to lose out on whatever might come Blade’s way, looks like he’d be working hard next week.



Lake Manawa flew by…the coop humming it’s flathead tune…Stubby glanced over at the speedometer, Blade wasn’t wasting any time and Stubby wondered if the Iowa Highway Patrol would be sitting in their usual hidey-spot just past I-29…



* * *



Whoa! Blade’s a bit mouthy isn’t he? I’m wondering if Blade and his pal Stubby really do get along? Doesn’t sound like it, does it? Or is Stubby only out to use Blade as his ride to the top? Where is the top, BTW? Is Stubby smart enuff to understand Blade is using him? Does Blade act this way all the time? He is a bit rough around the edges…but a cool tuff guy at the same time. You like him? What about Stubby…is he the cool type? Underrated maybe? As long as we’re asking, how ‘bout Zack and Conner? Dorree is definitely the curvaceous little hottie…maybe she’s where Chevrolet got the idea IT was the hot one…and Lew…think he’s pokin’ her yet? Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm…guess you’re going to have to wander in to the garage next Friday nite…see how it goes. Oh…lemmee see…we’ll need a couple of cases…maybe some wine and someone grab a couple bottles of Jack. Three window Larry didn’t show last week and the fridge is empty…and we’ve been getting a good crowd in the garage lately.

C Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,
R-

Copyright 01-2006 RAJetter/Aden Rush




High speed car stories set in the 1960’s.

“Bangin’ Gears & Bustin’ Heads”… the book, by R.A. Jetter describes a 16 year-old’s life in the late fifties up to the mid 1960’s…and what it was like to get into illegal drag races and fist-fights…it’s a series of 26 episodes, with each episode described in how and why, between each story. Vintage B & W photos are included-- a total of 208 pages.



Wanna know how it really went down back then? Wanna know what new ‘61 409’s, ’62 406 Fords ran like off the showroom floor? Wanna read about drag races, sock hops, real cruising and Premium gasoline? Wanna know how most of us spent our weekends back then? Wanna ride along with a lunatic?

If you do…this book will, at least, educate you to how it really was in the Midwest!

A personal, autographed copy is available at www.RAJetter.com …or send check/ M.O. for $20.95 to: P.O. Box 440042, Aurora, CO80044.

 

great, now i gotta buy a book ahaha

 

...ok...ya got me... the fridge is stocked already!...now tell me what's gonna happen next! Rog, yer killin' me...

 

Hi Rog!! Boy it just keeps ya hangin, wantin to see whats around the next corner!! The only thing I see ole Blade forgot when he left south O was stop and pickup Rocky!! or maybe he's already there!! I guess we'll just have to wait till next Friday to find out, I can't wait!! Oh and you can get a bottle of jack and put it on my tab, just save a shot for me!! lol
Catch ya later, Bill

 

BTTT...Great story Roger.
The 32 IS gonna win though.................right? LoL

Time will tell...

 

Now Bill...you know I don't know who's gonna win...and 3W Larry, thanx for restocking the fridge...

Moparrodder...3W Larry thanx you for buying some Jack (and so do I)...problem is we'll have to keep him from drinking it all...

And Fatcaddi...you don't HAVE to buy a book...but just think what you'll miss out on by not buying it...

BTTT for the evening crew...

R-

 

BTTT for the Sunday crew...

R-