RACE WITH THE DEVIL Well I've led an evil life, so they say But I'll run from the devil on judgment day, I said Move, hot-rod, move man! Move, hot-rod, move man! Move hot-rod, move me on down the line, oh yeah! It happened on a warm June day. I was out in the garage putting the finishing touches on the newest mill my Dad and I had acquired for my Coupe. My Dad was one of the largest suppliers for shine in the tri-county area and I was his driver. My Work Vehicle was a 53 Lincoln. The Lincoln had been the property of the Ford Motor Company and used to compete in the La Carrera -Panamericana. My Dad received the car as payment for a delivery of shine to a dry county in Texas. How the Texan had acquired the car was beyond me. Dad brought the car home, gutted it of most of the interior and backseat and installed a 100 gallon tank. The Lincolns mill was more than adequate for the fast trips through the hills and not a revenuer around could keep up with me. Dad and Pappy had been in the liquor business since as long as anyone in these hills could remember. Rumor has it that I was conceived on one of these runs through the hills. But that is pure speculation. Mama, was to pure for this sordid life. I paused from my tinkering and stepped back to look at my car. It was a 34 Ford 5-window Coupe that had a slight chop to it. The fenders had long since disappeared along with the bumpers. I had painted the car a dull red oxide primer and had ‘40 Ford V8-60 wheels on the front and a set of Divco truck rims on the rear. I ran black wall tires which were sized to give me a nice rake. The Coupe had the top of the hood only and I used some old headlights I had found on the same Divco dairy truck that my wheels were from. The engine in my ‘34 was a full on Y-Block Ford. Dad had acquired this one under a shady deal from a stock car mechanic from Daytona. It had a bunch of parts on it only available to the Ford teams racing in the NASCAR series. As others around me had been experimenting with Chevys and other GM products, I stuck to working on Fords. It was something Dad taught me. He always took a verbal licking from others, but his motto was as follows-You have to rebuild a Chevy. Hell, on a Ford all you do is clean it up and let er rip. What was good for my Dad was more than good enough for me. So, on this sunny beautiful day I was outside in the garage just tinkering away, trying to cure a miss that I detected. Pappy had just came out of the house and walked up to the garage, paused and laughed at me. He always laughed at me because Dad and I were so much like him. Always questioning things those around us thought were fine. Pappy had been one of the top mechanics for the Miller Ford team at Indy back in ‘35. He helped develop the race cars and even had input as to the best gearing for the venerable flathead Ford. In the end all of the factory efforts failed. ”Damned steering boxes boy. Had we ran the damned exhaust out the side of the hoods and not make it pretty like that showman bastard had wanted, then we would have taken it all.” The Showman Bastard that Pappy always referred to was none other than Preston Tucker himself. It’s true. At least Pappy always told me it was true. I was just getting ready to take the coupe for a test run when Pappy had laughed at me. ”What?” I queried. He puffed on his pipe and spoke around the smoke, ”Say, boy, we need you to run to town and fetch a few pounds ’o sugar.” A few pounds usually meant fifty pounds or so. Why the revenuers never hung out at the dry goods store was beyond me. I brushed a lock of hair out of my eyes and wiped my hands off on a red shop rag. ”Sure Pappy, should I put it on the account or pay for it?” Pappy frowned through the blue haze of smoke. ”Nah, you best pay for it out of pocket, boy. They’s be getting smart.” I nodded and opened the door of the coupe and climbed in. I fired the coupe up and cocked my head listening for the hesitation in the idle I had detected earlier. Pappy shook his head and smiled. He waved at me and strode out of the garage. Probably headed for the stills. I revved the coupe up, dropped it in gear and drove off. The day was bright and the sky was an incredible shade of blue. I had been daydreaming of sorts just enjoying the ride and did not notice the Caddy that had been pacing me. I came up to an intersection just as the signal light turned red and that was when I finally noticed the Cadillac limousine that was stopped right beside me. I glanced over and first noticed that the car was a glossy black with black tinted windows. Black windows? I was intrigued. I tried to get a better view of the car when the front window slid down with no sound. The driver was a knockout. Being raised by a single male and surrounded by grown men of questionable reputations, I had seen this woman’s face(or darned near like it) emblazoned on the cover of a men’s magazines such as Carnival, Wink, Eyeful and others. If it wasn’t Bettie Page, then man it sure was her identical twin. She was looking forward and had a cigarette holder held between her shocking red lips. She had sunglasses on and wore a chauffeur’s hat. I stared in disbelief as she turned to me and said, “He wants a word with you, follow me.” The light turned green as if she had control over it the whole time and pulled ahead of me. I fell in line behind her and we drove toward the end of town. We pulled up to the old water tower and the rear window slid down. From inside the car a gloved hand motioned to me to come to the car. Had I the chance to live it over, well, I think I would do things different. Though it was the middle of the day, the inside of the limousine was almost black. The man inside the car leaned forward and his eyes seemed to dance and glow in the darkness. He smiled and when he did he showed his teeth. Too many teeth I thought and I felt my blood go cold. He said to me in a perfect calm voice, ”Want to race?” ”Sure.” I said and knew that my life was going to change. Well me and the devil, at a stop light He started rollin', I was out of sight, I said Move, hot-rod, move man! Move, hot-rod, move man! Move hot-rod, move me on down the line, oh yeah! So the race was set. It seemed like a fair challenge. We race from the water tower out of town to Swithback road. From there we were to follow the road entering the town from the opposite from which we started. The wager, well that is where things got interesting. He wanted my soul. Ha! I had never set foot in church so I had my doubts that the Lord wanted mine. In times of heat and gunfire on the runs I had made in the Lincoln, I was sure that the Devil would be seeing me soon. But, to actually be faced with the fact of handing it over? I didn’t want to think of that. If I won, I would own his car. What he would drive was yet to be seen. That concerned me, but I knew what my Coupe could do. At dusk, as the last of the song birds were quieting down for the night, a light fog and cold breeze came out of nowhere. The night was reclaiming what the light of day had left behind when I saw a set of headlights approaching. Even from this distance, I could see His eyes watching me. ”Ah, prompt and timely, how nice.” He said. I got my chance to see the car I would be racing. It appeared to be a very clean, original black ’32 Ford Roadster. The only things I saw that hinted it was not all original were the 16" steel wheels and dual exhaust. The passenger side door opened and out stepped that raven haired beauty. She wore a black and white checkered halter top and a white pair of hot pants. I watched her go to the back of His roadster and open the decklid. She rummaged around and then pulled out a green flag. ”Shall we?” He said. I watched as he lit a cigarette, took a long hard drag and blow smoke out of his nostrils. The smoke hung there, seeming to cling to his chiseled features. He pulled his roadster to a line that appeared in the road. I followed suit. The Coupe’s engine drowned out the quiet purr of the clean Deuce roadster. The darkness seemed to embrace his roadster. It was so that I could not tear my eyes from it. My trance was broke with the clicking of heels as his passenger walked to the line in front of our cars. I glanced at her. She stood poised, looking at both of us. The flag was raised above her head and all I could do was stare at her curves. I glanced at her face and watched her wink as she slammed the flag down. He was gone! But, not for long. I wound the Coupe up hard and left the line with the tires smoking and fighting for traction. The taillights of the roadster grew from red pin points to small circles as I began to catch him. Soon I could read STOP on the taillights and then I passed him. I was chasing my headlights and racing for my soul. Well, goin' pretty fast, looked behind A-here come the the devil doin' ninety-nine, I said Move, hot-rod, move man! Move, hot-rod, move man! Move hot-rod, move me on down the line, oh yeah! (Let's drag now) But his tricks were far from over. As I came over the top of a hill the road ahead of me suddenly changed. The surroundings were not familiar. I hesitated and faltered on the accelerator. He was on me. The big headlights on the roadster pierced through my rear window and I could feel his eyes burn into the back of my head. Ahead of me, the road jaunted off to the left and as I rounded the curve I saw that beside me where there had been the soft and rolling hills, was now an angry ocean. This really through me and He pulled out and was now beside me. His cigarette was an angry red eye in the night and still the smoke remained where it was. He smiled at me and pointed forward. I turned my head and saw I was bathed in light from that of an oncoming truck! The front license plate was European! I let off of the gas, wrenched the wheel to the left and drew in behind the black Deuce. The truck blew past me and the driver shouted something at me. What was going on? It seemed I was now racing Him on some road in Europe or something and up ahead another hill loomed. I caught up to the roadster and waited. The hill became a tight curve and I made my move. With the Fenton headers screaming, I raced alongside of Him and came out ahead. A tunnel loomed and we raced into it. There were voices in the tunnel and screams. Hands seemed to reach from out of the darkness and rake the top of my Coupe. The tunnel continued to stretch out in front of me. It was then that I had an epiphany. Maybe, just maybe the King of Lies could be beat by me believing in things that were true? I had to try something. Well thought I was smart, the race was won A-hear come the devil doin' a-hundred and one Move, hot-rod, move man! Move, hot-rod, move man! Move hot-rod, move me on down the the line (Let's drag again) The things in the dark were becoming very real. I envisioned Switchback road. The rolling hills and soft sounds of the night back home. The tunnel which had seemed endless, suddenly was gone. I was high tailing it down Switchback road. I stood on it and concentrated on winning the race. I constantly thought of every detail I could about the road, my car and my home town. I tore my gaze from the road in front of me and saw His eyes were like two yellow discs hunting me in the darkness. His cigarette holder had long since gone out and his perfectly coifed hair had begun to fall. His shirt was rumpled and I thought I saw a trail of steam coming from the roadsters radiator. Ol’ Switchback road and me were old lovers from way back when. Dad and I would run this road when all we had was the’40 Coupe. Dad had me run the road constantly during the dark and learn to take the curves with my eyes closed. He would say to me- ”Feel the road, boy. Learn it, ‘cause your life may depend on it someday.” It was someday, alright. Well, goin' pretty fast, looked behind A-hear come the the devil doin' ninety-nine, I said Move, hot-rod, move man! Move, hot-rod, move man! Move hot-rod, move me on down the the line, oh yeah! The end was close and I began to recite all that had happened to me in my life. I remembered teachers and school chums, the sound of a marching band on the Independence Day. The taste of fresh brook trout. Somewhere behind me the blackest Deuce roadster ever to roll was stalking me waiting for me to slip up. He was beat and he knew it. Up ahead, the tree lined road gave out to the crossroads. Beyond that, the first buildings of town. I poured on the coals and the 312 gave me the rest of what it had. With pipes blazing fire I flew into town and then took the Coupe out of gear. I coasted to a stop and killed the ignition. I began to exit and that is when I heard the howl. A long unearthly bellow that was both low and high. A screeching like rusty nails being pulled from a thousand weathered pieces of cedar combined with an earthquake rumble. Well I've led an evil life, so they say But I'll hide from the devil on judgement day, I said Move, hot-rod, move man! Move, hot-rod, move man! Move hot-rod, move me on down the line. I dared to look at Him. He had parked the roadster and was standing outside of it. His hair was in disarray and his shirt was soaked through with sweat. He relit a cigarette and took a long slow drag on it. He then spoke,” I am always amazed and ALWAYS lose when someone like yourself realizes that without hope, there is nothing.” He chuckled and the smoke enveloped his head. ”I will be back for you someday. I promise.” He then turned and walked into a cloud of smoke and was gone. I walked over to the ‘32 Ford and took a closer look at it. What I found took me by surprise. Besides the steel wheels and twice pipes, the roadster was as original as the day Henry built it. I leaned over, placed my hands on my knees and puked my guts out. Tears blurred my vision and I looked skyward. ”Someday.” I whispered....... ******************************************************************** E P I L O G U E May 4, 1956 Nashville, Tennessee Capitol Recording Studios ”That’s a hit guys! Take 5!” Said the voice behind the glass. Gene hangs his earphones on the microphone stand and walks outside to get some fresh air. He leans against a tree and smiles at a pretty young lady who was strolling by. The door to the studio bangs open and Cliff Gallup pokes his head out. ”Hey Gene, can I talk to ya a sec?” Gene smiles, ”Yeah Man, what is on your mind?” Cliff takes a gander around and then lights up a cigarette. ”That song. Man it is so, well, you know-“ He searches Gene’s face looking for a sign as to the clue to its creation. Gene looks back and says,” You are curious how I was inspired aren’t ya?” Cliff shakes his head. Gene looks just over Cliff’s shoulder, sighs then speaks. ”Remember when we were getting lunch on Monday at that little café?” ”Yeah.” ”Okay, did ya see me talking to that old man with the grey hair at the counter? Remember how I caused everyone to be late because I was talking to him?” ”Well, yeah?” Gene paused, “Well, do I have a tale for you....” Written as a fantasy here folks. I write this story in honour of one of Rock-n-Rolls greatest singer/song writers. Thanx for the music Gene Vincent.
The Jalopy Journal
