c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(5-24)
Francis Nathaniel Paducah had been perennially broke since coming to Evergreen Estates. Yet he was resourceful in the tradition of his Kentucky ancestors. He knew how to split wood by hand, and use it to fuel a cast-iron stove to stay warm in the winter. He knew how to build things out of scrap lumber and construction debris. He could keep a rusty pickup truck running many miles further than its designers had ever intended. And he was an artist in his storage barn. Churning out improvised projects that were quirky and crude, but marvelous to his neighbors.
Yet one gap remained in his hillbilly experiences. He wanted some sort of barbecue grill for the summer. Not one purchased from a catalog or at a mega-center retailer. His idea was to design and craft some sort of unique, Appalachian appliance that would serve as a calling card for his homegrown shop. A bit of entrepreneurial advertising to dazzle doubters and convince friends that he was something of a redneck genius.
A first attempt at creating such a backyard cooker blossomed when he discovered a stash of discarded, metal coffee cans at an abandoned trailer in the park. He bound them together with a length of baling wire, then topped the containers with a metal grid that had once been shelving in an old refrigerator. He sat this trashy creation on towers of cinder blocks, next to his redwood deck. When filled with lumps of charcoal, the cans blazed red hot. He was able to do six steaks at once, easily. Enough to feed everyone who lived on his east side, and west. No one complained about the method used to accomplish this culinary feat. Briefly, he felt satisfied as a sort of junkyard engineer.
But ambition made him eager to revise the grill, and make it more sophisticated. So, he returned to his rustic barn, and went back to work.
A second bust of inspiration was brought to life when he found an oval washtub, made of galvanized steel. The artifact had been kept in their community garage, ostensibly brought to the property by a maintenance man who had long since retired or passed away. When he spied the gray basin during a trip to pay his monthly lot rent, a bulb of illumination lit in his head. He immediately tried to strike a bargain with their manager, Dana Alvarez. She was younger and pretty, with long, black hair and a Latin complexion.
“Eureka! That’s it dammit! That’s it! How much’ll ya take fer that bin? I’ve got a twenty-spot in my wallet!”
The professional caretaker was amused by her resident’s enthusiasm. He stood tall in his work boots, with a lanky build of settlers that had come to the Bluegrass State hundreds of years before. In Ohio, his rural twang sounded out-of-place. But it made other citizens of their mobile-home oasis smile. They called him Duke, a family reference to a forgotten performer who had once appeared on the Grand Ole Opry stage as ‘The Duke of Paducah.’
Dana nodded without thinking too much, and explained that the item was normally used as a vessel for crushed ice in the summer. It kept drinks cold at their holiday events. But after someone brought in a more modern cooler, it had been abandoned in a corner, along with fenders from a tractor no longer kept on the property. And the intake manifold from an Econoline van used by one of their many owners, to shuttle crews between different developments in the area.
“Yo, I’ll take that twenty and put it in our office safe. That’ll help pay for hot dogs and hamburgers when we celebrate Independence Day, July 4th. It’s a deal, Duke! Drag it on outta here!”
Nate glowed with pride as he slid the washtub into his 1985 Chevrolet S-10. The mechanical hoss had bowed leaf springs and bald tires. Its windshield was cracked along the bottom edge. Little of the original paint remained, which had been a ubiquitous shade of red. Yet it coughed and sputtered to life with a single twist of the ignition key.
Upon arriving back at his own longbox hovel, he went directly to the tool shed. Sadly, only a minute elapsed before his labor was interrupted. So, frustration took hold as he wanted to unload his treasure. Becky Bolt, who lived next door, paraded across the narrow yard with cold bottles of Bud Light in her hands. She was dressed in skimpy attire that would have been appropriate for hanging out at Geneva-on-the-Lake. But made her unduly noticeable in their neighborhood of downtrodden souls.
Her stature was slight, an inch or two under five feet tall. But her legs were long by comparison, and had been kissed by the sun. She wore a pink headband to restrain the blonde mop of curls that sprang from her scalp. Each step had her bouncing on air, like a stray balloon.
“C’mon, Duke! It’s a scorcher out here today! Quit turning wrenches and have a beer with me! I’m bored AF! This place really sucks!”
Nate closed his eyes and struggled to maintain civility.
“Miss Becky, y’all know I like ta keep busy. I don’t drink too often. A clear head keeps me thinking better. I’m trying to revise my grill plan...”
The undersized waif giggled and stretched her arms. This outward motion caused both breasts to bulge over the neckline of her camouflage top.
“Work, work, work! That’s all I see you do! Get a grip, dummy! Cut loose! Have some fun for a change! Look at my boobs like a real man!”
Her friend leaned against the bench by a peg-wall of hardware. He had been raised in an old-fashioned environment, where women were always treated respectfully.
“Look Becks, I used ta chug Miller High Life all day long. With Ancient Age whiskey on the side. That made me a hero with my buddies and a fool in public. Y’all understand? I had ta grow up. Which I did after going ta jail. That’s the deal now, staying free. When my hands are busy, I don’t do stupid shit. No more Honky Tonks or line dancing for me. I make stuff and sell it and save the cash. What I get goes ta help others. The preacher at our church on the township square says that’s a better way to live than bombing my brain with alcohol...”
His stylish suitor drooped like a wilted rose. She turned on her heel with the bottles of Bud Light getting warm in her hands.
“FINE! BE THAT WAY, DUKE! A GIRL TRIES TO SHOW YOU A GOOD TIME AND WHATTA YOU DO? PISS ALL OVER MY INVITATION! WELL SCREW THAT NOISE! I’M GONNA GO HOME AND CALL MY TRUCKER FRIENDS! JIMMY AND JOEL ARE COMING HOME THIS WEEKEND! THEY’VE BEEN ON THE ROAD FOR A MONTH!”
Nate relished the sound of silence, once he was alone again. Gears were turning in his head. He envisioned the galvanized basin filled with cans of charcoal, and topped with the grate from a basement window, found at a demolition project in Geneva.
“Sorry ma’am. Yer awful pretty and all, but I’m about to make grilling history, here! Yee Haw!”
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