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Authors: Craig Holden
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here and look no more,” he said, “less if you’re gonna buy it.”
We were headed back the way we’d come when Brigman said, “You know how he lost his hand?”
“Ted? Yeah, he told me.”
“Really?”
“I said I knew him pretty well.”
“So how?”
“He cut it pretty bad and it turned gangrenous before he could get in and have it taken care of. They had to amputate it.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“Oh, well then, he must’ve been bullshitting me.”
“I heard he was at Chosin Reservoir when the Chinese made their big counter. He was in a building that collapsed. His hand was caught under a bunch of debris and he was gonna be dead if he didn’t get out so he cut it off. Himself. Took that knife he carried and hacked his own fucking hand off. And now you work for the guy. Weird, huh?”
“I don’t know how you can believe that garbage.”
“I believe it,” he said. “He probably was bullshitting you. Those guys don’t talk about shit, you know, unless you’re one, too. Less you seen it. Ask him sometime if that’s not how it really happened.”
“I’m not going to ask him that.”
“Take me down there. He’d tell me.”
“Jesus,” I said.
“Fucking gook-killing machine. Wasted dozens of them little bastards.”
When we came off the bridge and I turned into the lot of a Big Boy, Brigman said, “What’re you doing?”
“Can you find the monthly?”
He was quiet a moment, then said, “Yeah. Unemployment goes another six weeks, then I’ll find something.”
“And you’ll be okay with this again?”
“I don’t want to drive it. Just work on it.”
“ I get to drive it sometimes.”
“Shit, boy, you can drive it all you want long’s you don’t race. You sure? You gotta have the dough for school, don’t you?”
“I have enough for next semester. Almost. But there’s one more thing.”
He looked at me and shook his head in resignation.
I said, “Let’s just get it going, see how it is. That’s all. It’s doing no good sitting there getting old.”
“I don’t want her getting in trouble with it, is all, racing all over hell, doing…stupid shit in it.”
“It won’t hurt to see if it runs.”
He nodded. I looped around and headed back over the river again to the east. The man came down fifty on his ask and agreed to take twenty for the rent. We stayed nearly an hour after I wrote a check for the car and the first month, me watching while Brigman pored over the engine, and the man swearing and kicking at one of the garage doors, trying to get the sumbitch piece-a-shit crap heap bastard open.
SIX
D onny drove Chloe to the mall one afternoon that week before Christmas ostensibly to do some final shopping but we knew she was also going to apply at the pretzel shop. This happened without Brigman’s blessing but also without his expressly forbidding it—Chloe had continued to bug him about it until he finally stopped reacting at all and she could take his lack of response, pro or con, as tacit permission.
In the meantime Brigman, true to his word and with an eye toward a Christmas deadline, began fussing with my mother’s Skylark. In a day he had it coughing, and a day or two after that running pretty smoothly. Then he had me back it out and test drive it with him in the passenger seat. We stopped first to get new tires (which were my Christmas present to Chloe), then found a big empty parking lot where he could take it around. He immediately ordered us back home, tore the wheels off to do an entire brake job including new drums, and also dropped in a new clutch. Chloe flitted about like a mother bird—her face would pop up in a window, then she’d be on the stoop, then in the garage, then back in the house again. Donny wandered over at one point and poked his head under the hood. When, upon seeing the modest six-cylinder 225, he mentioned that he knew where we could pick up a small-block V-8 four-barrel 383 with a high performance shaft,
We were headed back the way we’d come when Brigman said, “You know how he lost his hand?”
“Ted? Yeah, he told me.”
“Really?”
“I said I knew him pretty well.”
“So how?”
“He cut it pretty bad and it turned gangrenous before he could get in and have it taken care of. They had to amputate it.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“Oh, well then, he must’ve been bullshitting me.”
“I heard he was at Chosin Reservoir when the Chinese made their big counter. He was in a building that collapsed. His hand was caught under a bunch of debris and he was gonna be dead if he didn’t get out so he cut it off. Himself. Took that knife he carried and hacked his own fucking hand off. And now you work for the guy. Weird, huh?”
“I don’t know how you can believe that garbage.”
“I believe it,” he said. “He probably was bullshitting you. Those guys don’t talk about shit, you know, unless you’re one, too. Less you seen it. Ask him sometime if that’s not how it really happened.”
“I’m not going to ask him that.”
“Take me down there. He’d tell me.”
“Jesus,” I said.
“Fucking gook-killing machine. Wasted dozens of them little bastards.”
When we came off the bridge and I turned into the lot of a Big Boy, Brigman said, “What’re you doing?”
“Can you find the monthly?”
He was quiet a moment, then said, “Yeah. Unemployment goes another six weeks, then I’ll find something.”
“And you’ll be okay with this again?”
“I don’t want to drive it. Just work on it.”
“ I get to drive it sometimes.”
“Shit, boy, you can drive it all you want long’s you don’t race. You sure? You gotta have the dough for school, don’t you?”
“I have enough for next semester. Almost. But there’s one more thing.”
He looked at me and shook his head in resignation.
I said, “Let’s just get it going, see how it is. That’s all. It’s doing no good sitting there getting old.”
“I don’t want her getting in trouble with it, is all, racing all over hell, doing…stupid shit in it.”
“It won’t hurt to see if it runs.”
He nodded. I looped around and headed back over the river again to the east. The man came down fifty on his ask and agreed to take twenty for the rent. We stayed nearly an hour after I wrote a check for the car and the first month, me watching while Brigman pored over the engine, and the man swearing and kicking at one of the garage doors, trying to get the sumbitch piece-a-shit crap heap bastard open.
SIX
D onny drove Chloe to the mall one afternoon that week before Christmas ostensibly to do some final shopping but we knew she was also going to apply at the pretzel shop. This happened without Brigman’s blessing but also without his expressly forbidding it—Chloe had continued to bug him about it until he finally stopped reacting at all and she could take his lack of response, pro or con, as tacit permission.
In the meantime Brigman, true to his word and with an eye toward a Christmas deadline, began fussing with my mother’s Skylark. In a day he had it coughing, and a day or two after that running pretty smoothly. Then he had me back it out and test drive it with him in the passenger seat. We stopped first to get new tires (which were my Christmas present to Chloe), then found a big empty parking lot where he could take it around. He immediately ordered us back home, tore the wheels off to do an entire brake job including new drums, and also dropped in a new clutch. Chloe flitted about like a mother bird—her face would pop up in a window, then she’d be on the stoop, then in the garage, then back in the house again. Donny wandered over at one point and poked his head under the hood. When, upon seeing the modest six-cylinder 225, he mentioned that he knew where we could pick up a small-block V-8 four-barrel 383 with a high performance shaft,
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