Ruby's Pearls Elecmag 14/RUBYV14.ZIP/RUBY14-6

Text File | 1992-10-25 | 9KB | 152 lines

     Copyright (c) 1992

                                 THE POWER
                              By Michael Hahn

          Larry Jenkins had The Power. The other mechanics at Dave's
     Auto Repair thought he was a crazy son of a bitch, but they also
     knew he was the best mudbutt in the shop. He'd been fixing
     impossible cars for five years; there hadn't been one he couldn't
     fix, at least not yet. Sometimes it was downright spooky.
          One time, old Mr. Peabody brought in that piece-of-shit '64
     Buick--well, the tow-truck brought it in. Wouldn't start, no
     matter how much we cussed at it. Jerry looked it over, I looked
     it over, Peanut looked it over, but none of us could figure it
     out. About that time, Larry staggered in. Been out drinkin' the
     night before, I guess, 'cause he looked like shit on sale at
     Woolworth's. Just grinned that green-toothed grin at Peabody,
     muttered, "Wassamatter, ya ol' fart? Can't get it up?"
          Peabody 'bout had a coronary right there; his face got red
     as his tie. He opened his mouth like he was gonna chew Larry a
     new asshole, but by that time Larry had his head stuck under the
     hood of the Buick. Couldn't been under there more'n about thirty
     seconds, then slammed the hood shut. Put his hands flat on the
     hood, commenced to shakin' like one of them TV preachers, and
     yelled, "HE-ALL-DUH!!" Then he winked at me, twirled his finger
     at Peanut behind the wheel. Peanut turned the key, and just about
     shit his pants when that old Buick fired up.
          Well, Peabody shut his mouth. Happens so regular-like; he
     brings in the Buick, Larry fixes it. Larry loves to give the old
     fart seven kinds of shit in the process, but that's Larry. Dave
     tried to fire him once over the way he treats the customers, but
     the customers stopped coming in. Gravelton ain't exactly a rich
     town. Most folks have old cars, can't afford to trade 'em in.
     Nobody can keep 'em runnin' the way Larry can.
          Peabody grumbled something about smart-mouthed grease
     monkeys, but he paid his bill and rolled the Buick back out on
     the road.
          The rest of us went back to work. I had an oil change to
     finish on the Winkler's station wagon. Ben Winkler said he'd be
     over at noon to get it, so I had to get it done in an hour. Larry
     lurched over to the wash-up sink, puked up about a gallon of
     something that smelled really bad. Dave Epperson came out of the
     back room about then, yelled, "Goddammit, Jenkins, quit pukin' in
     the fuckin' sink! Go back to the john, for chrissakes!"
          Larry wiped his mouth on his sleeve, gave Dave the finger,
     and wobbled over to the water fountain. Dave followed him,
     screaming at the top of his lungs. "You asshole! I don't know why
     I don't kick your ass outta here right now. All you do is piss
     all over the customers."
          Larry looked up, and he had that mean-as-shit expression
     that meant Dave was liable to get his ass kicked in about three
     seconds. "Eat me, Epperson," he growled. "I keep their fuckin'
     shitmobiles runnin', and I keep you in business. You wanna kick
     my ass outta here, you better get three or four of these pissants
     to help you." His big, dirty hands were openin' and closin'.
     We'd all seen him unscrew bolts with those hands, no wrench or
     anything. Dave had too, which is probably why he swallowed real
     loud and backed off.
          "Get to work, you lazy mudbutts. I don't pay you to stand
     around and gawk." Dave stalked back into the back room, slammed
     the door. Larry grinned a crooked grin, wiggled his ass at
     the closed door.
                                   ***
          It turned out to be a slow day, so Dave chased us out early.
     I think he had a date with Mary Lou Sealy, so he was buzzing over
     his face with the electric razor he kept in the back.
          I was headin' out to my Camaro when I heard Larry yellin' at
     me. "Hey, kid," he hollered, running toward me. "That piece of
     shit make it over to my house? I left my fuckin' car at home this
     mornin'." He didn't smell too bad, so I waved him into the
     passenger seat.
          His house needed paint, but about half the houses in town
     did.
          Larry got out, said, "Buy you a drink, kid?" He scared the
     shit outta me sometimes, but he seemed to be in a good mood and I
     could use a beer. I shut off the Camaro and followed him into the
     house.
          It was really weird inside. Larry had all kinds of
     electronic toys. He musta had six or seven TV's, four stereos, a
     couple of microwaves--all kinds of stuff. "Beer?" he asked over
     his shoulder.
          "Uh, yeah, thanks," I answered. "What's with all the stuff?"
          Larry grinned, handed me the beer. "I like to fix shit.
     Most of this stuff was in the junkyard. I brought it home,
     tinkered with it. All of it works now."
          "All of it? I didn't think anybody could fix microwaves." I
     shook my head. "Aren't they like that solid-state shit?"
          "Well, it ain't like fixin' cars, but fixin' is fixin'. I
     just take 'em apart, try to figure out how they work, and put 'em
     back together like I think they're supposed to be. And they
     work." He got a funny look in his eyes. "Works for almost
     everything."
          "How come you're so good at fixin' cars? Half the time, I
     can't figure out how you did it," I said, swigging another
     mouthful of beer.
          Larry came back from wherever he'd just been, looked at me
     for a second. He got this real serious expression on his face,
     and his voice got low and quiet. "I've got The Power," he said.
          The way he said it, I could hear the capital letters. I
     wasn't sure what he meant, and I told him so.
          "You know those TV preachers, the faith-healers? They put
     their hands on people, and it cures what's wrong with 'em. I can
     do the same thing for cars and TV's and radios and microwaves."
     He took a deep pull on his beer. "I can feel my hands tinglin'
     sometimes. Sometimes fixin' shit is just a matter of seein'
     what's wrong with it. Sometimes, though, it's like my hands know
     what's wrong and fix it all by themselves."
          "Like Peabody's Buick this morning?" I asked.
          Larry grinned. "No, kid, I was just shittin' alla you guys.
     That Buick just had a broken wire runnin' outta the ignition. I
     just stripped it down and pulled out the slack. No, I mean like,
     uh, how long you been at Dave's, kid?"
          "Five years. I started right after I got out of high school.
     That'd be '77." I was startin' to wonder where this was goin'.
          "Five years, huh? Remember Bill Grady's 4x4? The one that
     wouldn't shift right?"
          I tried to recollect it. "Uh, yeah, I think so. Ugly green
     fucker, wasn't it?"
          Larry nodded. "Yeah, that's the one. I didn't have the
     littlest idea what was wrong with it. I just tore down the tranny
     and started re-building it. My hands were tinglin' the whole time
     I was workin' on it. When I got it back together, it worked. To
     this day, I don't know what was wrong. I just gave Dave some kind
     of frannistat bullshit to put on the bill."
          "Weird. You can fix anything that way?" I was really getting
     interested by now.
          Larry got all quiet-like. "Almost," he said, "almost." He
     emptied the beer, went after another. He passed me another can,
     took a long slug of his. He looked at me real hard. "There's
     some things I can't fix yet."
          I looked around his house. I saw computers, video games,
     watches, TV's, stereos--lotsa shit. "Geez, Larry, like what?"
          "Didja know I was married, kid?" he asked. "I married my
     high school sweetheart, Debbie Kingsley. She was my wife for
     three years and we were talkin' about havin' kids. She got killed
     in a wreck. Some drunk asshole in a pickup truck ran right
     through a stop sign, hit her broadside."
          "Shit, Larry, I'm sorry. I didn't know," I said.
          "Happened about ten years ago, kid. I didn't get there in
     time. They were already putting her in a body bag. She was really
     messed up bad. I went kinda crazy." He downed the beer. "I broke
     in the funeral home that night. They hadn't started getting her
     ready yet. I could feel my hands tinglin' when I touched her,
     kid. I fixed the broken arm, and the ribs, and the leg, and I got
     all her organs feeling good again.
          "She wouldn't start breathin' again, though. My hands were
     tinglin' the whole time, but she wouldn't start breathin'."
          He looked up, and I thought I saw a shiny-like light in his
     eyes. "Thanks for bringin' me home, kid. Now get outta here--I've
     got some serious drinkin' to do."
                                   END