He gestured to Alan.
Alan carried the impaled piston in a plastic grocery store bag. He pulled it out and handed it towards Roger.
“That’s a Johnson, I gather?” Roger asked. He took the piston and turned it over with knotty fingers.
Alan looked at Bob with surprised eyes. Bob shrugged back.
“How did you know?” Alan asked.
Roger laughed. It was a dry, whistling sound that undulated with his pulsing belly. “You’re living with ghosts,” he said eventually.
Alan cocked his head as he watched Roger tap his pipe against the corner of his bench. Something about the coveralls and pipe, or maybe the man’s beard with white streaks at the corners of his chin, made him look older. He looked like a father or a grandfather—someone who would command respect when he rose to speak at a town meeting. But he wasn’t that old. He probably wasn’t any older than himself, Alan decided. This was a man who couldn’t just tell you the time or the weather, he had to make a big production of the delivery, commanding everyone’s attention as he did.
“So can you get one?” Alan asked, cutting through Roger’s performance and getting right to the point.
Roger wasn’t done with his production yet. He clamped his pipe in the corner of his mouth and pushed off his stool. He was headed for a big metal rack against the wall. He talked as he walked.
“You see, you rolled up in the Colonel’s green truck. Can’t be more than four of those big green monstrosities in all of New England, and none of them as pretty as the one you drove up in.” With both hands, Roger grabbed a big box from the shelf and turned. He hugged it to his chest as he turned. “The Colonel had the whole thing completely repainted—top-of-the-line job—not more than twelve years ago when the dealership had a lawsuit against them. He didn’t have so much as a scuff on a door panel, but he had them do it anyway. Said it was the principle. They sold him an undercoat and he was damn well going to get his undercoat. I think everyone else just took the money. Nobody but the Colonel could keep a truck looking that good for forty years.”
Roger set the box down on his bench and picked at an envelope taped to the top. He peeled the envelope off and handed it to Alan. Alan turned it over and read Roger’s name.
“What’s this?”
“That’s the note the Colonel left me, asking me to order him a rebuild kit for his Johnson. It includes pistons, rings, gaskets, you name it. It’s been sitting on my shelf there for years.”
“I just need the piston,” Alan said. He saw Bob glance at him quizzically, and understood the sentiment behind that look—why not take all the parts in case he needed them? But Alan was sick of being bossed around by a dead Colonel, and this box of parts felt like yet another intrusion. If the Colonel wanted someone to rebuild the whole thing, he should have thought of that before he came down with cancer.
“Piston comes with the kit,” Roger said. He looked confused.
“Then could you order me just a piston?” Alan said.
“This is already paid for,” Roger said. “The Colonel prepaid. I know I should have delivered it over to the house, but I wasn’t sure anyone was there to receive it.”
“If the Colonel bought it, then perhaps he should claw his way out of the grave and shove it up his ass sideways,” Alan said. “I just need the piston.”
Roger didn’t move. He just stood there, looking confused. Alan felt a little satisfaction at having knocked Roger out of his comfort zone. These locals liked to make sport of the newcomers. Alan enjoyed setting Roger back on his heels a bit.
“We’ll take the kit,” Bob said.
Alan shot him a look.
“Since it’s already paid for,” Bob said. He stepped past Alan and picked up the box from the bench. “Come on, Alan.”
“Nice to meet you,” Alan called back over his shoulder as he followed Bob.
Bob set the box in the bed of the truck and climbed into the
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