In God We Trust_ All Others Pay Cash Part 12

XXI

ENTER FRIENDLY FRED ENTER FRIENDLY FRED Flick sucked noisily at a hollow tooth as I stood up stiffly to get the kinks out of my legs. Bar stools are not good for the knees. Not only that, but my conscience was beginning to bother me. Here I was, frittering away an afternoon chewing the fat with Flick, when I should have been out filling up my blue-lined notebook with acute observations on the evolving life of the Industrial Midwest, not to mention the impact of Automation on the day-to-day life of the solitary citizen. Also, I was on an expense account, and there wasn't much to squander it on in Flick's. I enjoy living to the full.

I stalked to the end of the bar, flexing my shoulder muscles and jiggling my feet. This is known in Indiana tavern circles as "Shaking Down The Suds." Flick moodily changed his ap.r.o.n. It was getting late in the afternoon now, and the big rush of steelworkers was due shortly after four when the s.h.i.+ft at the mill changed.

Again the entranceway swung open with a puff of frigid air. This time a tall, thin, natty customer displaying a formidable set of store teeth and a dour piercing gaze strode resolutely to the bar. Flick glanced up and, without a word pa.s.sing between the two, took a bottle of bourbon down off the mirrored shelf behind the bar and poured a double. Neat. The man quickly tossed it off, threw a dollar down on the bar, said: "Be seein' you," and was gone. Flick rang up the buck as I returned to my stool.

"Well?" I asked.

"Oh, him? That's Fted. Friendly Fred. He runs the Used-Car lot across the street."

I looked over at the lot. A touch of twilight gloom was beginning to dull the surfaces of the s.h.i.+ny fenders and grinning grilles. The banners fluttered jauntily, snapping and cracking in the breeze.

"He sure has some great-looking junkers over there," I remarked, dredging an expression out of my misty past.

"Yep. Sure has."

Next to bowling, automobiles are probably the single most important fact of a Midwesterner's life, after his job, of course. The family heap, the weekly paycheck, and a decent bowling average are all they ask of Life.

"What are y' driving these days, Flick?"

"Olds 88."

"How's she do on gas?"

"Oh, seventeen, around town. Maybe nineteen, twenty on the road," Flick lied.

"Can't ask for more than that."

I found myself sinking into the laconic conversation that I had almost forgotten existed. I had become completely acclimated to the martini-drenched, impa.s.sioned, self-pitying monologues of the French restaurants and expensive bars of New York. Here, the Ego-if it existed at all-was barely discernible. They had never even heard of the word "Career." Job, yes. Career, no.

"Olds 88. Hydromatic?"

"Yep."

"Four-door?"

"Nope. Hardtop."

"What color is it?"

"Dark blue. 'Bout the same color as that old Graham-Paige your Old Man used to have."

"The what?"

"The four-door Graham. With the V-grille."

Now I remembered. Of course! The Graham-Paige. In Hohman, cars were never forgotten, any more than old love affairs are ever really erased in other cultures. Family histories are measured in terms of cars, such as: "Clarence got the whooping cough when we had the w.i.l.l.ys-Knight," or, "Alex ran away with the Ledbetter girl right after we got the Hupmobile."

"You know, Flick, there's something I never told you about that Graham-Paige," I said.

"Well, if you're gonna tell me about the bad clutch it had, forget it. I know about that."

Flick was showing off again.

"No, Flick, there's something that's been on my conscience for a long time. It has to do with that Graham-Paige."

XXII

THE PERFECT CRIME THE PERFECT CRIME My father loved used cars even more than he loved the White Sox, if possible. A Used-Car Nut is even more dedicated than the ordinary car wors.h.i.+per. A true zealot never thinks in terms of a new new model. His entire frame of reference and system of values is based on acquiring someone else's troubles. It is a dangerous game, and the uncertainty of it appeals to the true Used-Car model. His entire frame of reference and system of values is based on acquiring someone else's troubles. It is a dangerous game, and the uncertainty of it appeals to the true Used-Car aficionado aficionado the same way that Three Card Faro draws on the profligate. the same way that Three Card Faro draws on the profligate.

My father, in company with other Used-Car fanatics, loved to spend long Sat.u.r.day afternoons roaming the Used-Car lots on the South Side of Chicago, beating the bushes for hypothetical great buys and spectacular deals in w.i.l.l.ys-Knights, Ess.e.xes, and Hudson Terraplanes. And when the Used-Car type actually tracked his car down and made the buy, it was a total commitment. All the way. And if the car turned out to be actually functional, his love for it far transcended the love and involvement of the lesser men who simply went to a dealer and bought a new car.

Anybody can buy a new car and expect to get a fairly operative machine, but it takes guts, knowledge, and a reckless sense of deadly abandon to come home with, say, a Lafayette Six previously owned by other shadowy drivers that had gone through G.o.d knows what h.e.l.ls, and to feel confident of victory. A used car, therefore, is a far more powerful love object than a new one. And my father played this deadly game to the hilt. Each succeeding used car was loved and babied, petted and honored in its turn. can buy a new car and expect to get a fairly operative machine, but it takes guts, knowledge, and a reckless sense of deadly abandon to come home with, say, a Lafayette Six previously owned by other shadowy drivers that had gone through G.o.d knows what h.e.l.ls, and to feel confident of victory. A used car, therefore, is a far more powerful love object than a new one. And my father played this deadly game to the hilt. Each succeeding used car was loved and babied, petted and honored in its turn.

Some of the great emotional scenes of his life occurred on Used-Car lots when he was deserting the Pontiac Eight for the "new" DeSoto. He would even go back day after day to see if they were treating the Pontiac well, and then would get moody and morose when it finally disappeared forever off the lot.

The new DeSoto-he always referred to each used car as "new"-at first would seem strange and formal to us, vaguely unfriendly, like living in someone else's apartment. On Sat.u.r.days, when we cleaned the car, we'd find foreign hairpins and other people's lost papers under the seats. But gradually the DeSoto or the Pontiac or the Hupmobile would become Ours.

Of course, at that time cars had distinctive personalities and characteristics in themselves and did not all come stamped out of the same mold, painted with the same paint, and advertised by the same agency. A Terraplane man was a completely different breed than, say, a Buick type. John Dillinger drove a Terraplane, which said a lot for the Terraplane type-an angry, rakish, wild machine. It was not a matter of Status then, but of att.i.tude and personality, and the Used-Car man had the fiercest loyalties of all. He was usually not only dedicated to certain makes of cars but to specific years within the breeds. I remember spending long afternoons with my father, hunting for a particular Graham-Paige that reputedly was of the finest of vintage years.

The day we found that beautiful midnight blue four-door Graham, with its stark Gothic radiator grille, was one of the true Festival days of that epoch. She sat bracketed between an elderly Plymouth and a stodgy LaSalle, glowing darkly with a sort of prim, contained politeness-a true aristocrat unaccountably cast in with the rabble. She had more than a few years on her, but was spotless and ageless.

The old man lit up like a Christmas tree and immediately went into his cagey Used-Car Buyer's cool, calculating bargaining character. It was exciting, in several ways. The contest between Father and his his Friendly Fred, the imminent loss of the trusty old Pontiac-did the Graham have a sponge-rubber transmission? The lurking reefs of disaster were always there. Friendly Fred, the imminent loss of the trusty old Pontiac-did the Graham have a sponge-rubber transmission? The lurking reefs of disaster were always there.

Later, the first time he wheeled the midnight blue Graham up the driveway and around the back, was just the beginning of it-the week-long Festival of Love for the new Graham.

At the time I was just below the legal minimum age limit for driving. And I used to sit in the back seat and watch my father s.h.i.+ft gear, casually make left turns, back into parking spots, and wheel the Graham around like a second skin.

In the Midwest driving is like breathing. Kids living on the Maine coast learn to sail at a certain age. They all do. In the Midwest, driving is simply part of life, and they are serious about it. Afternoons, when the car was parked in back, I would sit in the front seat and practice s.h.i.+fting gears, working the clutch, and mentally whistling down US 41 in the center lane. And once in a very great while, when we would be out for a drive on a Sunday, my father would maybe let me back the car out of the driveway, or on the really really great days he'd say: great days he'd say: "You want to take over?"

Do I want to take over! What a question!

He'd sit next to me: "Easy on the clutch now."

I'd ease the clutch out.

"Wait now, don't s.h.i.+ft to Second yet. There, get it moving. All right, into Second now. Well, for crying out loud, push the clutch all the way IN IN before you s.h.i.+ft! before you s.h.i.+ft! YOU'RE GONNA STRIP THE GEARS YOU'RE GONNA STRIP THE GEARS! Here, lemme do it!"

Next thing I know I'm sitting in the back with my kid brother. Flubbed it again!

I was always trying to curry favor with both the Graham and my father by surprising him, especially on Sundays. The surprise consisted of was.h.i.+ng the Graham or polis.h.i.+ng the chrome with some pink stuff that my father used.

I was in the garage, working on the front b.u.mper. It was Sunday. The family was going out that night, and I was about to surprise everybody with a spectacular job on the chrome. I polished the rims on the headlights, and it's a tough job. My knuckles were sc.r.a.ped, my fingernails torn, the pink stuff soaking into my skin, but the grille was beautiful, just beautiful. And then I decided to back the car out of the garage by myself, to really surprise them. So that when they came out on the back porch they would see this blinding vision flas.h.i.+ng chrome. In my mind's eye I could hear them say: "Why, what has happened to the Graham-Paige? It looks better than new!"

And I would just stand proudly, modestly by and wait for the praise and the honor that would be due me.

I finally finished the job. The Graham was glistening. I scrunched down in the driver's seat and started the engine. What a sense of Power! I checked the ammeter. It was flickering slightly on the "Charge" side. Gas gauge-quarter full. Oil pressure-forty pounds. Normal.

I eased the clutch in and gently moved the gears.h.i.+ft lever into "Reverse." Already I was a master of gear-s.h.i.+fting. "Ease out on the clutch gently," and I began to roll backward out of the garage.

Screeeeeeaaaa....

I slammed on the brake and the clutch and hung in midair for a split second.

My G.o.d! I had sc.r.a.ped the left rear fender on the garage door! I put her in First and tried to roll forward.

Eeeeaawwwrrrrr.

It was stuck! The fender was dragging against the door. My G.o.d! I was sweating. And sick with fear. I had really really done it this time, all the way! done it this time, all the way!

I quickly scrunched over to the other side of the seat, and out. I was going to push the car into the garage. I couldn't move it. It was really stuck! I had to drive it in again.

I got behind the wheel and put it into First. I was going to do it real slowly. Reeeal sloww....

EEEEEEEAAARRRHHHHHH. BOING!.

I could hear the door scrunching and ripping. I got out again and looked. I could just see the edge of a huge sc.r.a.pe mark on that beautiful midnight blue fender. The paint was peeling off in long curls. It was jammed, and I didn't know what to do. I knew that if I moved any further I'd strip off more paint. I had to do it!

I eased out on the clutch.

RRRRRRRR.

It was stuck!

I could hear people moving in the house, doors slamming. Any minute now somebody was going to come out! I just knew it. My father! He was going to come out in the backyard to look in the trunk, or to pick up a football or something.

The screen door slammed open, and it was my kid brother. My G.o.d! I head him off.

"Hey Ran, hey. Would you go down in the bas.e.m.e.nt? See if you can find my old...ah...my...remember that old skyrocket I had? See if you can find my old skyrocket, will you, Ran? Go on, Ran, see if you can find it for me."

He looked at me and then went back in the house and down in the bas.e.m.e.nt.

I didn't want anyone to know what I had done, and time was running out!

I leaped in the car. Any minute now my Old Man was going to come out. I knew it. I slammed it in gear.

EEEEEEEEUUUNK!.

It was free!

I turned the key off and got out. There it was! The back fender neatly peeled, a long scratch the entire width of the fender and then some. What was I going to do!?

I knew what to do. Nothing! Absolutely nothing!

Five minutes later I was two blocks away, knocking out fly b.a.l.l.s and pretending I had never seen a car in my life.

That night we were all dressed up and in the Graham. I was in the back seat, and worried sick. n.o.body had even noticed that the back fender was sc.r.a.ped. I was keeping my mouth shut, and I was sweating: a thirteen-year-old Rascolnikov sizzling with guilt, fighting against the urge to blurt out: "Stop the car! Look at the left rear fender! I did it! I am guilty! I am unworthy to exist in the bosom of such a wonderful, innocent group on its way to see Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers! I am guilty and despicable!! Rotten to the core!!"

But what did I do? The same thing that modern man always does. Plays it cool. At least as cool as it is possible to be while shuddering under wave after wave of fear and guilt.

We parked the car and went into the movie. I was still safe. Darkness had obscured the raw wounds of my crime.

I squirmed through the movie in a cold sweat, barely able to concentrate on my taffy apple. All I remember was that this guy Astaire kept wearing a high silk hat-like Jiggs-and hopping around on the tops of pianos.

Another crucial moment came when we approached the Graham in the parking lot. I hung back, waiting for the thunderclap.

It did not come. The Chief merely got in the front seat and said: "Pile in. Let's go."

I scrunched down in the back seat and in my relief and nervousness talked a blue streak all the way home.

But later, in bed, the old icy sweat came back. He would have have to see it tomorrow, and he would know! There was no escape! I squirmed and sweated for half an hour or so, and then developed a gigantic gut-heaving stomach ache. My mother dragged me into the John, limp and wan, and hung my head over the bowl. Taffy apples of years past squirted out of my nose, my ears.... to see it tomorrow, and he would know! There was no escape! I squirmed and sweated for half an hour or so, and then developed a gigantic gut-heaving stomach ache. My mother dragged me into the John, limp and wan, and hung my head over the bowl. Taffy apples of years past squirted out of my nose, my ears....

"That'll teach you to listen to me about all that junk you always eat."

I finally fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion.

The next morning for a few brief rapturous minutes I had completely forgotten that I was a doomed man. And then, halfway through my Wheaties, it all came back. My spoon hung in midair. The sun streamed through the kitchen windows. My mother's Chinese-red chenille bathrobe hunched over the stove, making coffee. All the old familiar things of my former carefree life lay about me. The cracked plastic radio on top of the refrigerator, the old kitchen table, my Little Orphan Annie shake-up mug, the blue gla.s.s s.h.i.+rley Temple sugar and cream set which meant so much to my mother, all part of a Better Time.

After school that day I went through the motions of ball-playing, a wizened, care-bent figure at second base, knowing full well that retribution was inevitably drawing nigh. It had had to come tonight! to come tonight!

My father usually got home from work about six, just in time for supper. We were expected to be in the house no later than five-thirty, washed up, and ready to eat. Tonight I lagged in the gloom, trying to forestall the inevitable. My fellow ballplayers had long since melted off into the twilight. In the distance I could hear my mother shouting for me through the kitchen door, and finally, painfully, I dragged myself home.

Staring out at me from the bathroom mirror-hollow eyed, lined death's head of a face, covered with Lifebuoy suds.

And then it came. A great angry roar of flying cinders, the Graham-Paige booming up the driveway, roaring around the back angrily, and then-silence.

The water trickled feebly in the sink. My kid brother blabbed somewhere off in the distance. I clung weakly to the towel rack, waiting for the fatal blow.

The kitchen screen door slammed. There was now no escape! A brief thought of drinking iodine pa.s.sed through my tortured cranium. They'd feel sorry then! But would they? They would probably welcome it, after what I had done!

I hear my mother's voice from the kitchen: "What's the matter?"

And then a bellow of inchoate rage. I knew any minute thunderous footsteps would head for the bathroom. Already I could feel the sobs welling to the surface.

And then my father's voice, booming in rage: "Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds down at the parking lot! They banged up the fender on the Graham and the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds deny deny it!!" it!!"

I clung to the sink, bells ringing in my skull. I had been witness to an actual miracle. I would never again be an Unbeliever!

The voice angrily continued: "I drove it in that lot absolutely perfect! Not a scratch on it!! Come on out and look at it!"