c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(4-24)
Nordy Montclair was a tall, gangly outcast among the people of Evergreen Estates. A community of mobile homes where no one claimed to fit into the neat layers of polite society. Among burly, working-class men and hardened, strong-headed women, he still managed to stand out as an oddball. Someone with thick glasses and a sprig of messy, brown strands atop his angular head. Life had not been charitable to him on an individual basis. With a veteran father gone missing-in-action, during combat overseas, and a mother that chafed at the responsibilities of raising a family alone, without an education, he was dumped into the lap of his grandfather. The old drunk was known for creaky limbs and a cranky disposition. Yet he adopted the young calf willingly. Being a widower and socially distant from neighbors around their development had made the old hobo languish in lost dreams and faded memories. But Zedekiah was revived in spirit by having the boy under his care. It gave his existence a new sense of purpose.
The old man looked upon his grandson with fondness. And defended him from the teasing words of others on their street, who felt that this inept, junior immigrant was wholly unsuited to inhabit the rural, boxcar village.
Nordy worked temporary jobs around the township, whenever they became available. He helped as a casual laborer with light construction projects, cleaned out abandoned trailers, did yard chores and painting, and mechanical tinkering. His curiosity and quick intellect made him popular with those who had little money to spend, but lots of needs. Yet even after a year on the property, he still had not been able to afford a motor vehicle.
Zedekiah even decided to set aside some of his whiskey funds, to help the nerdy nebbish save up for a running vehicle. But with market prices insanely high due to inflation, and forced mandates for EVs rattling manufacturers, the time was not fortuitous to make a purchase. So, his youthful apprentice struggled along, walking everywhere. He carried tools in the pockets and sewn loops of his denim clothing. Occasionally, this meant being searched by local deputies who did not understand why he carried such items in public. Eventually however, this became part of the folklore of their manufactured oasis.
They nicknamed the growing progeny ‘Hammer Boy’ and called out to him whenever he was seen on a journey to earn money for his coffee-can safe, under a rollaway bed propped up with cinder blocks.
Nordy scoured newspaper ads on the kitchen table, every morning. His grandpa still subscribed to the Star Beacon, a publication from Ashtabula. Then, he would check the Facebook marketplace on his Walmart phone. A device that represented his single indulgence as an overgrown kid.
There were entries for all kinds of rolling stock, rusty minivans and economy cars, and even station wagons left over from the era before he was born. Decommissioned police sedans, bent and broken luxury cruisers, and foreign models with names he could not pronounce. Despite all of these options, his heart was stuck on a certain type of wheeled beast. One that would fit the culture of his environment, and offer a greater ability to work-for-hire.
He wanted a pickup truck!
The pimply, budding handyman desired something more useful than a flat-tired wreck, such as the one that inhabited his caretaker’s driveway. A mule upon which he could call for duties of all sorts. A mechanical servant that would never let him down when in the midst of earning gainful income. A partner that would provide a foundation for his rise from the gloom of poverty and hardship.
He read through lines of newsprint, and peered at photographs with a magnifying glass borrowed from a kitchen drawer. When a potential buy was located close enough, he would walk the distance to have a look. Yet each encounter, flesh-to-metal, only made him more dejected. Bargains usually disappeared before he arrived on the scene. Having little cash on hand meant that he couldn’t negotiate, when other buyers wanted to steal away his target.
Finally, he had saved a roll of $1000.00 in the tarnished, Maxwell House container that constituted his bedroom stash. His adoptive sire had added another $500.00, by weaning himself off of Evan Williams bourbon, for the moment.
Now, he felt confident enough to plunk down the full amount, on a righteous rocker. A full-frame, V-8 monster that would haul and tow and pull anything from one place to another. He hid the small bundle in his boxer briefs. Then, went out on a pedestrian adventure.
At a car lot by the county line, he had spied a vintage, silver Ford F-250, with a ladder rack installed. A sleek, black GMC, with a fiberglass cap. And a Dodge Ram from the early 2000s, painted blue. With four doors and four-wheel drive. His pulse quickened when assessing these options, one by one. But when the balding salesman heard his pitiful offer of money down, a guffaw of spite echoed across the pavement. He loosened his necktie, and sputtered curses.
“FIFTEEN HUNDRED? ARE YOU JOKING, SON? GAWDAMM! YOU CAN’T GET A GOLF CART FOR THAT KIND OF COIN! QUIT WASTING MY TIME!”
Nordy scratched his chin and lowered his head. His face was covered with acne and beard stubble.
“I’ve been saving for a year. I live with my grandpa, at Evergreen Estates, right up the road from here. He’s tired and gimpy. I need a way to get around from job to job without being a burden...”
The used-car huckster snorted until his unruly mustache was glistening with snot.
“EVERGREEN ESTATES? THE ONLY THINGS THAT COME OUT OF THAT GODFORSAKEN HOLE ARE METH ADDICTS, WELFARE QUEENS, AND HIGHSCHOOL DROPOUTS! IF IT WAS UP TO ME, I’D BULLDOZE THAT LAND AND START ALL OVER AGAIN! I FEEL SORRY FOR YOU BUDDY, I REALLY DO! BUT I CAN’T FINANCE ANY OF THESE TRUCKS WHEN YOU’VE GOT NOTHING IN YOUR POCKETS! GO FIND YOURSELF A BICYCLE! THAT’D BE MORE LIKE WHAT YOU CAN AFFORD RIGHT NOW, I THINK! HAVE A NICE DAY!”
The innocent cub was stinging with defeat. He tried to mumble a polite word of thanks, before walking back to his prefab hideout, about a mile away. His bones sagged and his belly grumbled. Dust blew across the road as he looked up, into distant clouds that lingered overhead.
Suddenly, the sales representative came running. His demeanor had changed completely. An expression of contrived comity, and opportunistic glee blossomed on his cheeks.
“Wait kid, I never introduced myself! I’m Donny Bartelli, nephew of the owner here at B & B Auto World. You probably saw our motto on the sign out front, ‘Nobody Walks!’ That’s how we roll here, everyone gets a deal. Even somebody like you! I’m sorry for making a bad first impression. But listen to this, I just remembered that we do have a vehicle on our lot that could work for your budget. It’s a creampuff, as my uncle likes to say. A perfect truck for your needs, great on fuel and easy to maintain. You can find parts in boneyards all over Ohio! Come around behind the garage, and I’ll get you the keys! This is your lucky day!”
As they stumbled through loose gravel and busted tarmac, and a patches of thistles and weeds, a squarish, German vehicle came into view. It was decidedly small, hued in an unappealing shade of beige, and dirty. Yet very solid for having been built originally in 1981.
Nordy choked on his saliva. He squinted to read the faded script painted across its tailgate.
“Volkswagen? What the heck is this thing, sir? I never knew they made a pickup truck!”
Salesman Donny stroked his cue-ball skull and smiled broadly.
“IT’S A VW ALRIGHT! A RABBIT DIESEL! YOU’RE GONNA THANK ME FOR HOOKING YOU UP TODAY, SON! I GUARANTEE IT! WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF FAHRVERGNÜGEN!”
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