“Damn piece of shit!”
This car never was any good. I never should have bought it. I should have bought the Japanese one, but no, Matty insisted we buy North American. Something about keeping the jobs here in this country. Something about employing some fuck down in Arkansas who’s trailer-trash brain doesn’t know whether he should properly tighten the CV joint or quit and go back on welfare. I’d prefer the work of some little Asian guy trying to get ahead in the world.
“Fuck! It must be the starter.”
Last time it was the starter I paid 300 dollars to fix it. Why can’t things work right when you pay to have them fixed the first time? Why is it you have to take it back two or three times until they finally get it? Why is it I’m driving ten year-old wheels when I’m nearly two years shy of sixty? How the heck can a man go through the prime of his life, working everyday, and have nothing to show for it? Nothing financially that is. Sure I had a few good times but what happened to all my dough?
Matty didn’t work. I didn’t want her to. And being a proper lady like she was, she didn’t argue. I always made enough for the two of us to get by, but we never had much for luxuries. Like we never traveled, really. A few short trips in small hotels but never anything like a cruise. She always looked nice because she made her own clothes (and most of mine). When she found a lovely fabric, she’d ask if she could buy it like Dorothy Lamour in some movie or something. Like it meant the whole world to her. And of course I would say yes. I would have agreed without the theatrics but she’d put on her best show just for me. Maybe it was her way of keeping entertained in this miserable lower-class existence I’d given her. It’s not like she didn’t come from money—for she did. Old John Tillman either owned or ran half the businesses in Alderside and wasn’t modest about showing off his wealth. Most of the parading was done by her brothers but Matty got to ride around in some pretty fine cars herself. Cars that were a whole lot fancier than this.
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“His name was Bill or something. Said it was the starter and that this new one would fix me up fine.”
“We don’t have a Bill. We only have an Al, a Tim, and a Randy. Who do you think it was?”
Ignorant bastard. How am I suppose to know which one it was, I already said I thought his name was Bill. Why is it you always have to raise a stink every time you want good service? I wish Mother Teresa would move here and open an autobody shop so there’d be at least one person in this God forsaken town who gave a damn about common everyday people. Goddamn oil boom. If you’re not rich, they’re not worried about you. Almost makes you wish you were rich.
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Yes I got it fixed. Turns out the starter old Bill sold me was a rebuilt that only came with a thirty day warranty. After I bitched and moaned they fixed it for sixty bucks plus eight percent for shop supplies (what a racket).
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“Hello Miss MacIntyre. Nice to see you to ….. My wife, no she’s not inside right now, I’m sorry to say she passed three days ago. Weak heart ….. Yes, she was a very fine woman …. Thank-you Miss MacIntyre.”
She won’t remember a thing I just said. That old bird must be ninety if she’s a day. I think she’s the oldest one in here and I think she’s been here for some forty years. One time Matty asked her in for tea and she talked for hours about how she almost married this guy, Harold. How he was kind to her and sort of handsome in a way. But she thought she could find better and never ended up marrying at all. I think she told everyone about Harold so they wouldn’t think she was a lesbian or nothing like that.
Anyway, after teaing with Matty for hours she never remembered her name. She’d always call her “you” or “stranger” as in “hello stranger.” She called almost everyone “stranger.” I hate being called “stranger.” It’s like living in the wild west where gunslingers down shots in the saloon and women like old Miss MacIntyre dance a can-can on top the piano. Then late at night, when a can-can girl spots a new face she approaches him with, “Hello stranger, looking for some company.” Maybe Miss MacIntyre wasn’t a lesbian at all, maybe she was a hooker all along, maybe she still is—son of a bitch.
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She grabbed my Johnson like a gymnast grabs the high bar. Ten strokes later I was done.
(No, not Miss MacIntyre.)