Hubcap Jones

by MJ Hurd

 

The whole barn leaned to the left and from the looks of it, not because of old age, just too much junk. A hundred years ago it was built by hands hardened by Appalachian oaks and hewn granite blocks. Anything worth building needed to last for at least a hundred years to be worth the sweat.

“Too bad.” he muttered as he leaned with the building trying to imagine it true and noble.

The old man emerged from the shadows that slanted the opposite direction making the trapezoid of the opening look like one of those crazy Escher prints. Endless stairs going everywhere. Just the thought of it made him dizzy. He straightened up and smiled at the man’s grey eyes and briar bush beard. A shaking hand held it out.

He let out a low whistle and took it from the man’s hand. The sun shone on the chrome and lit the red of the flag’s enamel. It was an original nineteen fifty-two, wheel spinner for a Chevy Corvette.

“You have all four?”

The beard surged as the man nodded just once.

“How much?”

The beard split to reveal two brown rows of teeth.

“Two grand.”

Came out coated in the smell of chewing tobacco and rotting teeth. Reflex drove him back a step. He snorted to clear his nose, then shook his head.

“No way. Thousand for all four.” he replied, then took another step backward to avoid another attack on his senses.

The beard trembled, then erupted in a long stream of brown, steaming tobacco juice arcing to the ground.

“Nope. Two grand.”

“Then I’m wasting my time.” he said setting the spinner back in the man’s weathered hand.

“Yep.”

He turned and started for his truck listening for the old man’s first move, but it never came. The truck door slammed shut.

“Hub, you understand a full set of original Chevy Corvette, nineteen fifty-two, wheel spinners are worth twelve thousand dollars according to price fixer dot com.” came the machine’s voice in his ear. It was soft and tender, but he knew better. He hit the truck’s on button and the display lit up.

“Not if I have to smell his breath one more time.”

He took one more look at the old man, who hadn’t moved an inch, then squeezed the throttle and the motors whined to life. The truck lurched onto the dirt road, settled into self-drive mode and plotted his route back to the nearest highway. A touch of the execute symbol and strong push of his chair away from the dash, put him in “don’t give a damn” mode.

Their client sounded like another faceless billionaire in China hoarding American pop culture out of spite. Long gone were the days of finding lost treasures for car junkies trying to build the dream they had kept in the back pocket of their memory. Sons conjuring fathers, fathers conjuring sons, or daughters building a bridge to nowhere. Their faces would light up or eyes tear up as they cradled that last precious piece.

Now it was a big payday to just show up, smell tobacco breath, and leave empty handed. Their cronies would do the rest. Offer them whatever, do whatever it takes. He hated it.

But it paid the bills.

“The client wants you to go back and pay the man the two grand.”

Here we go. Man versus machine.

“That won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Because I left. If I go back now, he will just up the price. Probably double it.”

“How do you know that?”

He let out a sigh. Explaining himself endlessly to this infernal machine was going to kill him, but buyers insisted he use it. Frankly, he just wanted to reach into something and rip out its tongue, but it didn’t have one. It just lived in the air somewhere. A million bits of insanity that asked the same questions over and over because that’s what it was programmed to do. Software sweetness driving him mad.

“Because it’s what I would do.”

“Then give him double.”

That muscle in his jaw was twitching again. “Because that won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Because he will only deal in cash and will want to see it before he brings them out.”

“How do you know that?”

The muscle was jumping so hard it was almost too hard to respond.

“Because that is what I would do.”

“Then show him the cash.”

“That won’t work!”

“Why not?”

“Because he already knows I have the cash!  He just wants to string me along, saying he only has three, but if he finds the other, he’ll let me know, but it’ll be another two grand to dig it out. I’ll say okay and ask when he will let me know if he found it, but he won’t know, and I have to wait until he calls two days later, but now the price has doubled again, and we start all over!”

“How do you know that?”

The cabin of the truck was designed for heavy construction areas and big city noise, so the man screaming behind the tinted glass would have been more comical to see than sad. He pounded his fists and kicked his head back as he hurled a full-throated cursing into the roof. Finally spent, his head drooped forward.

“Because that’s what I would do.” he whispered as his chest heaved.

She came back on, but somehow her voice was, well, different.

“Buyers Agent Software would like to notify you that the upgrade your client ordered is being provisioned at this time. Your current session will resume once the upgrade is completed. This will take a few moments.”

Silence flooded the cabin. It felt like a warm blanket to his brain. Maybe he could take a quick nap. These usually took…

“Maybe you should do something you wouldn’t do.” said the voice.

His head snapped up.

“What?”

“Do something you wouldn’t do.”

“What do you mean?”

He could swear he heard a metallic sigh.

“You keep doing the same thing expecting a different result. Do something different.”

“No, I don’t. You send me to the same places expecting a different result, then ask the same questions over and over.”

“So? Do something different.”

“What do you mean?”

There was a pause. A little wheel with different colored spokes appeared and started to turn, stopped, then she came back.

“Do something different.”

“Like what?”

“Anything different.”

He cocked his head. “Like what?  What are you implying?”

“I’m not implying anything. Just do something different.”

“Like what?”

The pause was longer this time and the little spinning wheel was spinning so fast he could barely see the different colors of its little spokes. Finally, it slowed, then stopped.

“Anything. Anything different from what you would normally do. Say something different, act different, yell, sing, be late, be early, anything different.”

“Why would I be early or late? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It would be different.”

“I would never be early, or late.”

“That is the point.”

He sucked in a breath. “Maybe I should go back there and just take them and leave the cash.”

“Do something different.”

“What do you mean?”

This time the wheel didn’t start off slow, it just disappeared into a blur a soon as his words faded. It was a full five minutes before it slowed, then stopped.

“Just do it then.”

“Do what?”

The screen went blank.

He punched the app icon a dozen times, but it remained dark. With a shrug he sat back and let out a long sigh.

“I don’t think I like this new upgrade.” he muttered as he shut his eyes and reclined his seat, exhausted. “It’s too stupid.”

###

Highway Radio

by MJ Hurd

 

The blood on her knuckles bulged in three small domes that finally burst and started small crimson rivers running to the tips of her fingers. She could feel their heat and smell the tangy salt and iron as she wiped them off on the back pocket of her jeans.

At one end of the porch was the grimy panhead she had stolen in Yuma. It was fast enough to suit her schedule, but goggles were a must have item and the asshole on the floor inside had managed to break hers when he threw her to the floor. She held the empty leather and rubber frames up, then tossed them at the bike.

However, the fifty-seven Chevy at the other end would do just fine. It would be a couple of hours before anyone showed up and found him. She would be long gone by then. The nails of the grey floor boards of the porch squeaked and groaned like a bad harmonica as she made her way to the car. She started to hum bar arrangements.

The car was spotless. Not so much as road dust in the tread. It was like someone had lifted it off the showroom floor and placed it here just for her. She had seen the ads for this model in Life magazine, but hadn’t seen one on the road yet. This was a copper and cream combination with a vanilla white interior. She leaned toward the driver’s side window. The lock was up and the key was in the ignition with a shiny treble clef hanging from a fragile silver chain.

The door opened with a smooth click and swung open in silence. It felt strong and safe in her hand. She started to lean in and stopped, a wave of guilt sweeping over her. Not for stealing the car, but for the dust on her boots and the blood on her ass. She untied the kerchief from around her neck and laid it out on the front seat, then swung in knocking the dirt off her boots. The door hushed, then closed with a deep thunk.

The smell of new car washed over her face and filled her lungs like a big hit on a menthol after good sex. She smiled and twisted the key. The engine roared, then settled into a patient rumble. She shifted down into reverse and hit the gas. Dirt and dust flew, a few spins of the big wheel and she was up on the freeway roaring away with a laugh.

There was no freedom like an open road and nowhere to be. Sure, she had to be somewhere, but he wasn’t going anywhere and killing him tomorrow or next week wouldn’t make a difference. Dead was dead. She reached around and pulled the pistol out of her waist band and jammed the barrel in between the cushion and backrest next to her. The grip stuck out just enough so she could grab it in a hurry.

The tires hummed in a steady rhythm and the bar arrangement she had chosen back at the porch fit just fine. Her fingers picked up the rhythm and her smooth soprano cleaned up the squeaks of the rusty nails. The words took a little longer, but by the time she was leaving Tucson she had them down. Her pistol kept the scrawled on napkins from flying out the window as she wrote each note into her memory.

The signs for El Paso appeared with the morning sun and she was done. The tires still hummed, but it was if they knew where she was going and their song fell into the background, just more road noise. A sputtering neon arrow pointed to a gleaming aluminum rail car with soft yellow lights and a fresh asphalt parking lot. At one end was a dirty panhead leaning into the red glow of the neon. She parked at the other end, scooped up her napkins, stuffed the pistol into her waistband and slipped the silver chain around her wrist.

Bells rang clear as she pulled the heavy door open. The smell of hot pancakes and maple syrup made her stomach announce to the empty diner what she wanted. The booth closest to the Chevy was clean and she slid onto the gleaming red vinyl with a whisper. On cue, blonde hair crowding a pair of pearl blue horn rimmed glasses over hooker red lips appeared with a smile and a steaming cup of coffee.

“Here you go sweetie.” was all she said, then she bustled away back through swinging steel doors.

The coffee was too perfect. There must have already been sugar in it because it was just sweet enough to silence any bitterness and strong enough to make her want more. She took in a long draw and felt the heat and caffeine sweep through her. The whooshing of the steel doors drew her away from the dark bliss just in time to catch the waitress’ smile while she slid a stack of steaming cakes and melting butter onto her table.

“Syrup’s right there dear.” she said glancing toward the little fat glass pitcher next to a shiny napkin dispenser. “I’ll be back with a refill in a little bit.” She started to turn away, then turned back. “Do you need some paper and a pencil?”

She didn’t know what to say, so she just nodded. The blonde waitress’ hair bounced a little as she spun toward the steel doors, then shuffled on through, humming an old soft shoe tune. In three mouthfuls she returned with a sheaf of crisp paper and two yellow pencils.

“Here you go dear. Let me know if you need me to sharpen them right up.” then she was gone.

Another forkful dripping with syrup and a swallow of coffee and she set to putting it all down. The notes flowed from her like music from a highway radio on a dark road. The words fit just right, and the rhythm was easy enough to dance to real slow. When she was done she placed the pencil down as if finishing an exam and sat back. The morning was in full swing and the diner bustled, clinked and murmured.

When they all showed up didn’t matter, she was tired and empty. Somehow the diner had lost the magic she felt when she arrived. Her waitress’ hair didn’t bounce as much, and the red lipstick had stained her teeth. Outside the Chevy was covered in road dust. The grille and windshield were layered with a hundred bugs of every size and looked as worn as every other car in the lot.

His voice startled her and fear surged into her throat. Seeing his face turned it into anger, and suddenly the pressure of the pistol against her back reminded her of what she really came here to do.

“I’m surprised you came back.” he said through the same smirk he had when the hands of his gang were stronger than her screams.

But they couldn’t help him now.

She scooped up her papers and folded them into a neat square. It fit nicely into the pocket of her leather jacket.

His eyes narrowed into snake like slits. “What’re you doin’ with Bud’s jacket? he hissed.

She reached back for the pistol, pulled it out and laid it on the table. His eyes widened just a bit, then went even blacker than they were before.

“Bud doesn’t need it anymore.” she replied.

He stared at her for a second, then in a smooth motion swept the pistol right off the table and into his lap, but the motion caught the eye of the waitress at the counter. She straightened her glasses, then shuffled to the far end of the counter and picked up the phone.

“I think you might want this too.” she said as she slipped the silver chain off her wrist and slid it across the table. “It belongs to the Chevy out there.”

He glanced out the window, then scooped up the key.

“Why did you come back?”

“I just wanted to see your face.”

The smirk came back. “You are one crazy bitch.”

The cruiser rolled into the parking lot and stopped at the entrance. Two Texas troopers stepped out and made their way through the entrance in smooth strides. The waitress pointed to their table.

“I’m not crazy, I’m a songwriter, and watching you hang will make one hell of song.”

His eyes flew open just as the trooper put the barrel of his gun against the back of his head.

“You move son and judgement will come a hell of a lot sooner.” The trooper looked her over. “You okay ma’am?”

“I am now officer, thank you.”

She picked up her pencils and slid out of the booth, the next verse of the song already written.

###

 

A Little Bob Dylan

by MJ Hurd

 

His toes hung warm and relaxed from his branch in the old maple. The crook of the limb made a comfortable backrest as he watched the black bearded man step back to admire his work. It looked like a snow plow or an ocean wave at the beach ready to fall, cut into a big cube of black rolled steel and rust. Bearded man rubbed his hands on his oil stained overalls and disappeared back into the cellar of the old general store.

The boy had watched him all spring and summer rebuilding that old abandoned wreck into a beautiful example of turn of the century architecture with lettered plate glass windows in front and fancy paint on the trim. Then the man disappeared for three weeks only to emerge today from his storm cellar giddy and hopping around like a school boy.

Maybe it had something to do with the green and yellow VW bus that showed up, spilled out a cloud of smoke and three long haired guys, all laughing, while trying to coax a mangy mop of a dog out of the front seat. The stubborn mutt had picked his seat and he was keeping it. A snarling show of his teeth caused an eruption of roaring laughter as they stumbled into the store.

There was a lot of music last night. Some he had heard on the radio, but nothing his Mom or Dad would listen to. Johnny Cash and the lady that sang “Down in the Boondocks” were their favorites.

This morning the bearded man coaxed the long hairs and the huge sculpture out of the cellar and onto the grass beneath his limb. They were kind of scraggly and skinny in the limb and probably all three put together weren’t as strong as Timmy Bean’s Dad, Bubbins, but they worked hard to position it just right for their friend and hugged each other upon his final approval. After they had said their goodbyes and piled back into the van, the bearded man came back. He looked up at him, a pearl grin piercing the black of his beard, then he pointed to himself.

“I’m Peter.”

The boy sat, still comfortable on his perch, but curious.

“What is it?” he asked.

The pearl smile vanished. Bearded man looked it over real slow as if seeing it for the first time. He put his hands on his hips, took in a deep breath, then let it out real slow.

“I don’t know.” he said shaking his head, as if finally confessing a crime, then ran a thick, dark stained hand through his tangled black hair. ‘What do you think it is?”

“I dunno.” replied the boy as he wiggled his toes. “Looks kinda like the snow plow on Mr. Taft’s truck.”

Peter crossed his arms and scowled like an angry pirate. His arms were covered in a greasy sheen and blurry tattoos. They were thick and looked almost as strong as Timmy’s Dad’s, who drove a spike nail with a single blow at last week’s town fair.

“Maybe if I paint it.”

“How’s that gonna help?” asked the boy, while his feet swished back and forth in lazy sweeps. “You still won’t know what it is.”

Peter turned his scowl toward the boy. “What do you know about art?”

The feet stopped their swishing.

“I been to the art museum in Burlington. If I don’t know what something is, they tell me.” The feet started swishing again. “You can’t.”

The toes started their wiggling again. The boy’s legs seemed to revel in the artist’s pain. “Maybe you should paint it.” he finished.

Peter’s face scrunched up, his beard twitching, then let out a “harumph” as he spun around and stomped back down into the cellar.

The boy looked the sculpture over. It really wasn’t bad. The Encyclopedia Britannica called stuff like this modern art, and showed a picture of a big, bright red, tube with curling steel plates that was in New York City. He liked it, but wondered what made that one so special.

Peter returned with two shaker spray paint cans. The rattling clack of the balls sounded just like the rattle snake he saw last night on Wild Kingdom. Peter sneered up at him with vengeance, then went to work.  The cans hissed at the ends of his arms like two swaying cobras fighting for position to strike.

Swipes of orange and chartreuse green struggled to cover the rust of the iron, but the valley breezes carried most of it away to the alfalfa fields behind their barn. Around noon the hisses faded, and Peter stood back to admire his work again.

The feet stopped.

Peter looked up at the boy, the grin was back. The boy looked back down at him.

“Now it really looks like Mr. Taft’s plow.”

The artist’s shoulders slumped.

“At least it won’t rust.” the boy said with a smile.

Then the feet were back, swooshing and wiggling. The colors were the same as the van and it looked pretty stupid.

After a moment they stopped swooshing.

“If you paint it black at least it’ll get warm in the sun. Then we could lay on it like the warming rock down at the swim hole.”

A smile split open the black beard and for a second he looked just like that picture of Jesus hanging in the church next door. The one with all the sun rays coming out from His head as He looked up to heaven.

Peter strode back to the steps of the cellar and disappeared again. The boy jumped down from the limb and crept up to the steps to catch a glimpse. He’d been in there a hundred times when it was abandoned, poking around or playing tricks on Timmy, who was convinced it was haunted, but now it seemed more interesting, having people and all. The sounds of a guitar and harmonica leaked out followed by a voice that seemed flat and bored.

Peter reappeared at the bottom of the steps with a worn crate full of brushes, rags, paint cans and one transistor radio. The antenna was bent halfway up, but still shone like new. His beard cracked open with another grin.

“Let’s paint!” he declared, then strode up the steps two at a time.

The boy followed him, kicking at the dandelions along the way, their white balls bursting into a hundred little floating angels. The flat voice on the radio was singing about something blowing in the wind and he giggled.

“This song’s about you.” he said to Peter’s back.

Peter put the crate down in the shadow of the sculpture. “How so?”

“Aren’t you looking for some sort of answer?”

The can of paint came out. It was black car primer according to the label. That explained all the black splotches on the man’s beat up Chevy truck.

“Like what?”

“To what this thing is and why you made it.”

Peter scrounged through the crate and came out with a rusted screwdriver, speckled with paint.

“I know why I made it.”

“Why then?”

Peter’s beard twitched, then he attacked the can with the driver, working its tip all the way around the lid, meanwhile the harmonica took over the song. It reminded him of the folk singers that came to play for them each month at the schoolhouse.

“I bet that guy knows why he’s singing his song.” the boy said walking around the sculpture.

“Of course he does, he wrote it.”

“But why did he write it?”

Peters eyes were getting as dark as his beard.

“Because he’s Bob Dylan. That’s what he does. He’s a songwriter.”

He grabbed a brush and swirled it in the paint.

“So, that don’t mean it’s why he wrote that song.”

“Yes, it does.”

“No, it don’t.”

Peter took in a big breath and let it out real slow.

“Yes, it does. He’s a songwriter, so he writes songs.”

“I draw sailing ships, that don’t make me a sailor.”

Peter slapped the brush on one side, then began long, steady strokes.

“Why do you draw ships?”

“It helps me feel like I’ll be a sailor someday.” The boy swept a whole row of dandelions with his foot in a slow twirl. The flood of angels spread out over the yard like a snow storm. “Out on the ocean, smelling the water and salt, the whole world laid out before me.”

The brush stopped.

“Are they any good?”

“Don’t matter. I like ’em.”

The brush resumed, but this time a little slower. It seemed like the song was finishing up.

“Do you think Bob Dylan likes his songs?” Peter asked.

“I dunno. Probably. Since he can’t really sing, he must like the words.” he replied as he worked to pick up a little round stone between his toes.

The brush paused again. It quivered a little.

“Did you like his words?”

“They’re okay. A little confusing at first, but I get it.”

Peter dipped the brush back in the can and swirled it slowly. He looked the boy up and down, then went back to painting.

Late summer breezes were starting to blow some leaves toward the wet paint. The boy leapt into action picking them out of the air before they could land. Peter stopped to admire his swift grace and the uncanny accuracy of his fingers. It was like a dance with the only music being the rustling of branches in the wind and the soft exclamations of victory at each leave’s plucking. After the winds died down the boy returned grinning and placed the leaves in a pile by the crate.

Finally, Peter stepped back to admire his work. It was black, and it was… big. The boy stood next to him, hands on his hips as if he were waiting.

After a moment he looked up at the lost artist and said, “I think the song says asking the question is more important than the answer.” He crossed his arms just like Peter.

They stood there with dandelions wiggling in the wind and the boy staring up at the black beard.

“Figure it out now?” he asked.

“Figure what out?”

The boy looked toward the sculpture. ‘What it is.”

Peter stepped back a little and looked it over again. This time it seemed like he was saying goodbye, then let out a big sigh and smiled down at the boy

“I think it’s a warming rock by a swimming hole.”

The boy’s face lit up. “I think so too! I think so too!” he declared over and over as he danced around the black ice cube with the wave on top.

Years later a man came through the town and saw the cube, and the next day came back with a truck. Afterward, standing in the boy’s spot under the tree, he could hear music coming through the open windows of his home. For so many days, through those windows, he had seen the boy playing, or drawing his ships in the crook of the cube. Growing taller, but finding new ways to drape himself across its curves. Eventually, the boy got his own transistor radio and would sing as he read or drew. Some Bob Dylan, but mostly newer music.

Now all that was gone. The boy had moved away, and the days of Bob Dylan had passed, but he was satisfied. The question had really been the most important part. He took one last look around and kicked at a dandelion as he headed back to the house. It burst into a hundred angels that twirled and danced away in the wind.

The End