Art & Inspiration The Deuce: A Hot Rod Story

**The car is real, it belongs to my uncle. The picture is my dad (left) and my uncle (right). The story: a stretch of the imagination. It's not 100% accurate, but isn't that what fiction is all about? Enjoy the story and enjoy the ride in the passenger seat.**



I fumble in the dark to find my keys. “Damn,” I mumble underneath my breath, in hopes that no one hears me. “Where the hell did I put them?” I hesitate to hit the light switch, but I soon come to the realization that I must. My hand slides along the wall in an attempt to find the switch. The depressions in the plastered wall remind me that house is older than me. And I’m fine with that. My hand locates the light switch and I flick it upward. The sudden burst of light temporarily renders me useless. Once I’ve regained control of the situation I locate my keys and clutch them in my hand that like the rest of my body is still asleep, dreaming of a blanket that envelops the slumber seeker in warmth, comfort, and security.

I stumble out to the garage, nearly spilling my coffee along the way. I look around me and realize that unlike myself the sun is still asleep. I take another swig of coffee. “Shit, grounds.” I realize that I ground my coffee beans too fine this morning. Apparently the French Press needs an extremely coarse grind. As my tongue makes a few passes across my teeth to remove any remnants of my morning error I bring a cigarette up to my lips. My lips purse together, gently cradling the cigarette, patiently waiting for the crack of my Zippo to spark a fire and slowly take time off my life. As I inhale I begin to cough. “Maybe I should quit this shit. Ehh, who would miss me if I was gone?” I flip on the light switch in the garage and have my question answered for me.

The fluorescent light gently caresses my coupe in a light that does not highlight its beauty. The bodylines, the chop, the stance, and the way the orange primer absorbs the light. I smile, my heart skipping a beat in the anticipation of fire lighting off eight spark plugs and allowing her to rumble. I raise the garage door with the pride that an enlisted solider raises the flag every morning at reveille. I begin to contemplate my plan of action. I look outside and realize that I’m gonna wake up the entire neighborhood once the flattie comes to life. My enjoyment takes precedence over my neighbors. After all, they knew what they were getting into when I moved in.

My thumb, stiff from years of abuse, sends a sharp pain up my arm as I hit the starter button. The old flathead roars to life. The exhaust exits the straight pipes and is music to my ears. 1-5-4-8-6-3-7-2. It’s as if I can hear each sparkplug igniting the fuel that the four Strombergs deliver. Just as a conductor rejoices when his symphony is spot on, I can tell that the old Harman & Collins mag that I scored from the farm auction is working fine and delivering enough spark to make the flathead burp, gurgle, and rumble a symphony that has never sounded sweeter.

My foot pushes in the clutch as my hand caresses the shift knob, an orange Bakelite sphere that has been polished smooth by much use. I slip the trans into reverse and look over my shoulder as I back the coupe out of the garage and down my driveway. I slid it back into neutral and head towards the garage, lower the door and slide the clasps closed and secure the two Master locks. As I head back to the car I watch the bursts of exhaust exit out the rear. My breath hangs in the air as I exhale. A chilly morning to say the least. I shut the door and latch the seat belt. My ass finds the well-worn in groove in the bench seat and once again I back the car up, this time into the deserted street. I head down the street rejoicing as the bias-ply tires find each and every groove in the street. Each groove makes me think that I’m canvassing the face of the mother in Dorthea Lange’s Migrant Mother. While most people find solace in how smooth their vehicle’s ride is, I find comfort in knowing that my car traces the road and sends each impulse through my body, forcing me to perform the long lost art form of actually driving a vehicle.

I head down the road, banging each gear as if I was a cow, swatting flies away from my ass. My hands grip the steering wheel, directing the coupe down the road like a captain steers his ship across the Atlantic. My head scans from left to right and back again. The stalks of wheat are in full bloom, swaying in the gentle breeze that kisses them this morning. I come to an intersection that I’ve come to a thousand times before. No matter how many times I come up on this intersection I always get the jitters. “I’d wish they’d make this a four way stop,” I mutter to myself; noting the countless accidents I’ve witnessed because someone is too impatient. I look left. I look right. As my headlights cut through the early morning fog that has settled I’m cognisant of the fact that I don’t see any approaching headlights. I clear second and slip into first.

My foot pegs the floor as the Flathead comes to life. Eight fists, pumping, creating the sweetest symphony I’ve ever laid my ears on. Before I know it the engine is pulling my little old coupe down the two-lane road as I speed to parts unknown. As the car rumbles down the highway I notice that my paltry wool flannel that I borrowed from my father isn’t cutting it. I reach down and rotate the knob on my Arvin heater. An amber light glows in the darkness, indicating that a gentle warmth that will soon envelope the entire cab. “Shouldn’t take too long,” I note to myself, “after all, this cab isn’t that large.” I decide to take the old three window up into Sequoia.

I’m sure that this subconscious move is due in part to the flashbacks I’m having. Looking at the sleeve of my flannel, I can’t help but think of the countless times I saw my dad button it up. I distinctly remember seeing his fingers, covered in an eternal coat of light grease, brought on from years of teaching auto shop, fasten each button as we got ready to go fishing. It becomes clear to me. I’m heading towards the peaceful solitude of the mountains because they spark so many wonderful memories. The scent and flavor of the tube of original Chapstick that sat in the top of the tackle box, the scent of my dad’s coffee, of my hot chocolate, the pungent odor of dad’s Camel non filtered cigarettes. Just as my rims are spinning ‘round and ‘round, so does my mind.

The sun still hasn’t begun to rise yet as I turn onto Highway 198. “Shit, I’m gonna be driving into the sun.” It doesn’t matter; I’ve got a larger prize in store, worth much more than a few hours of squinting through a chopped windshield. I pull into a gas station to top off the tank. That’s the lie I tell myself. I get out, stretch my stiff legs, and stagger inside the fluorescent mecca and head straight to the coffee. My fingers tremble as I grab a cup and fill it up with liquid. Steam and the aroma of day old coffee slides into my nostrils. They flare at the repugnant smell that, oddly enough, is welcomed in my body. I walk back to the car, finish filling up, and get down to business. I pull out some loose tobacco and roll myself a cigarette. It’s the only reason I stopped and I know it.

I climb back into my cockpit and hit the starter button. I pull out of the gas station and head towards the mountains. The wilderness. The unknown. And yet, I know this is partially a lie. It’s Sequoia, for crying out loud. It’s not as if I’m heading out on the Stampede Trail in Alaska. But I’ll find some solitude to clear my mind. Check that, I’ve already found it.

 

and then the alarm went off.....and I realized I was dreaming

 

very cool story BTW,thanks

 

Mark Sladovich....cool guy and great story.

 

Mark--well I'll be damned, ya figured out my inspiration. I've driven that Deuce a handful of times and this story expands on one of them. Thanks for the kudos.

 

damn cool- thanks for sharing

 

cool story. thanks for sharing

 

well done

 

Great story! I was really enjoying the ride.

 

Thanks for the kind words everyone!

 

Excellent Story, Thanks.

BB

 

damn good story. I could hear the old flattie roaring down the road!

 

Cool