c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(3-25)
Because Betty and I were living on an unimproved, rural road, hidden from the population center which was only a few minutes away, there was no hurry to junk my Chevette. The husk of this demolished, steel carcass sat in our side yard for several months. Throughout the winter and into spring. But eventually, I grew tired of seeing it framed in the kitchen window. Its lingering presence reminded me of what the hatchback had ultimately meant in personal terms. Specifically, a lengthy episode of failure, frustration, and regret.
The Weekly Mail was a popular publication in those days, read by nearly everyone in our county. It mostly consisted of advertising, but carried a few news stories on the first couple of pages. Because it was distributed by the postal system, and available for free at newsstands, the rag boasted an enormous reach with readers. There were lots of services and businesses hyped in their pages. So, my wife-to-be kept a close eye on the content contained, therein. When a notice of free towing appeared, offered by a local dealer in scrap metal, she immediately brought it to my attention. Her breathless plea tickled my ears.
“Rodney! You can finally get rid of that eyesore behind our house! I know you like using it as an extra shed, but please! Call this number and get them to haul it away! There’s no reason to miss out on such a great opportunity!”
I had already opened a cold brew, and stood by the front door while savoring my refreshing, Blue Ribbon libation. It gave me the confidence to speak what was on my mind. Something I normally refrained from doing when my love partner was present.
“Nah, wait a minute! I was going to peel off the hood, and plant flowers in the engine bay! It’ll to be a sort of lawn sculpture, you know? Wait and see! Maybe we’ll get a picture on the cover of that local paper of yours! Give me a chance, at least! It’s worth a try!”
My mocking sense of humor was not well received. She wrinkled her nose, and hissed, lightly.
“Mr. Ice, you are not the least bit funny! I want that piece of Detroit rubbish out of our yard! You are not a gardener or a decorator! Quit being an ass!”
My face flushed red, while drinking.
“Look, there are usable parts left on that thing. New headlights, the radio, a spare tire, who knows what else I might need down the road...”
Betty folded her arms, and spoke with the clipped cadence of an office-manager on duty. Her delivery was very direct.
“My son will help you. He loves to tinker on projects with his grandpa! Do whatever you need to do, to be satisfied, and get that little heap of trash out of here!”
Suddenly, my beer tasted flat. I surrendered without any further attempts to play the joker.
Her offspring and I spent an entire afternoon scuttling the General Motors T-car. He took pride in guessing what bits and pieces might be used for repair projects in the family. Once we had finished our work, my toolboxes and the storage barn were loaded with automotive spares. I dialed the number listed, and scheduled a visit for the next morning. Something that was easy and unexpectedly quick. Yet when the salvage representative arrived, he was stunned to see that we had culled the Chevy for anything worth keeping.
With a grunt and a crack of callused, greasy knuckles, he frowned and shook his head.
“WHAT, YOU STRIPPED THAT BEATER, ALREADY? HAH, OKAY! I SEE WHAT YOU DID! THAT’S A DAMN BITE IN THE BUTT! NOW, YOU OWE ME MONEY FOR THE TOW!”
I couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not. But my stomach began to ache.
“C’mon, you can still sell the hood and doors, and hatch. Even the wheels, maybe somebody needs a replacement rim. Who knows? You’re here anyway, load it up and go...”
The burly fellow grumbled and grew sweaty while doing his work. In only a matter of minutes, the decaying chunk of refuse was on his wrecker bed, and chained down for safety.
I expected a rush of excitement at finally seeing the Shove-It disappear. Yet when the junkyard rig began to roll back up our gravel trail, over the hillside, I actually felt a tingle of remorse. A bit more than three years had elapsed, since I bought the minimalist Chevrolet. Memories of long workdays, bar-hopping and traveling to New York sparkled in reflection. It had been the first dependable mule I owned. At least, by contrast with the white Volkswagen which stranded me on numerous occasions. The Econoline van was only a temporary substitute for my ruined econobox. Eventually, I would have to make another selection. When that moment arrived, I hoped to find something just as thrifty, and inexpensive to maintain.
My future bride glowed proudly, when she came home from Fisher’s Big Wheel, to see the empty rectangle in our yard. The green grass could bathe in sunlight, and grow once again. I had gotten rid of a headache and nuisance, that perplexed me for far too long.
“You did it! You did it! I’m very pleased, Rodney! Don’t you feel good now? It’s over at last! No more complaining about that bland beast! You’re free of it! Good riddance to bad garbage! Goodbye, buh-bye, bye bye!”
My face had turned pale. Both hands were cold.
“Yeah, I guess. That’s three grand in bank payments, right down the drain...”
Betty adjusted her oversized spectacles, and huffed.
“DON’T TELL ME YOU’RE FEELING SORRY ABOUT THIS! AFTER YEARS OF MOANING AND BITCHING ABOUT THAT CAR! YOU HATED IT! BE HAPPY FOR A CHANGE! BE HAPPY AND THANKFUL THAT IT RAN FOR LONG ENOUGH TO GET PAID OFF, AT LEAST!”
A cloud of dust drifted across the horizon, as the junkyard hauler reached our road peak, by the main route to town. I could hear the diesel engine hitting full throttle. This mournful sound echoed across the landscape, like a siren’s cry.
My erstwhile champion was now on its way to bowtie Valhalla. With its carbureted spirit being carried by a Valkyrie loyal to fallen, four-cylinder conscripts who perished in battle.
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