Read Online Tourists of the Apocalypse by C. F. WALLER - Free Book Online

and is excited to earn some extra money as well as socialize.
    Roberta, who works at a flower shop in town, takes a liking to T-Buck right off, annoying Jerry to no end. I doubt anything will come of it, but this is a small town and there are no other interracial couples here. Come to think of it, there are darn few black folks. This tidbit had not occurred to me before now, but it is a fact. Other than Ernie and Ron, who both work at the plant, I can’t think of any actual residents who fall under any racial category other than white. This being Texas there are of course some Latinos, but more so in the adjacent county. None of that here , Jarrod used to remark.
    There isn’t much lawn work in January, but I rake and cut the grass regardless. Graham pays me and never mentions the time of year. One January day I am startled when Dickey’s Mustang backs out of his mother’s garage. I had not seen it since the weekend he claimed to be doing an engine swap. It was generally assumed he had botched the job as he had taken to driving his mother’s station wagon. When was that? Like three or four months ago? Once in the street, he notices me and guns the engine, spinning the tires and leaving a trail of white smoke. Rocketing down to the dead end where I stand, he slides the car to a stop only a few feet from the curb.
    There is no hood, a situation I assume has to do with the new engine and not the lack of the item in question. He revs the engine and grins through the windshield. The car sounds amazing, hitting on all cylinders and running smooth. The body is the same sun faded silver as before. There are still dents on the front and back from his poor parking skills. The driver’s rear fender has a deep groove in it running at least two feet. He kills the ignition and climbs out. Coming around to the front, he bows and waves a hand over the engine like the pretty girls on The Price is Right .
    “Wha, wha wha Laa,” he announces.
    “Nice, how’d you manage it?”
    “I, of course, that,” he stutters and pauses. “I know what I’m doing.”
    “Clearly you do. Sounds sweet.”
    He draws out a pack of cigarettes and lights one, dragging a match down the fender to do so. I’m watching him bask in his glory, when I see T-Buck walking down the street from the direction of Dickey’s house. I get a nod when he sees me looking, but then he puts a finger to his lips indicating I should pretend not to notice. So that’s how he did it.
    “Wah, wah, want, to go for a spin?” he offers, leaning over the engine and pushing a blue plug wire back into the fancy divider.
    I can’t now,” I beg off, not wanting to ride in a car driven by a guy with a closed head injury. “Maybe later.”
    “Too, too, too,” he stutters. “Too bad, so sad.”
    I nod as he slips back behind the wheel. When he pushes in the clutch, the car rolls forward nearly hitting me, before peeling backwards. I get a fake salute from Dickey, before he spins the car around and disappears from the street. Probably going to cruise town like a fifties movie .
    Watching him go, it occurs to me the police never came by and asked about Jarrod. He had mentioned it to me last Fall before the Mustang disappeared into his garage. I wonder why? The cops must have caught up with him themselves. T-Buck reaches the sidewalk in front of his place and I pass by, heading home for lunch.
    “Pretty nice of you,” I suggest.
    “What?”
    “Fixing Dickey’s car.”
    “I had nothing to do with it,” he denies, but then winks.
    “Right, but if you had, it would have been a nice gesture.”
    “No idea what you’re talking about,” he declares, heading inside.
     
    When the Banks go under, the factory closes, and half the people in town lose everything. Several of the houses on our street are foreclosed on. The Piggly Wiggly closes for a week, but then opens when some out of towner tosses enough money at it to keep it going. Without the pharmacy and groceries, it