Part One
Grandpa and I lifted our welding masks and surveyed our creation with the pride of mad scientists. A mass of auto parts loomed before us. A mongrel. Spawn of a kin-folk discount and several trips to Mount Sterling Junkyard. The ogre wasn’t pretty but from its sparkle blue hood to its plywood tailgate, it was mine.
―Start it up. I could hear the doubt in Grandpa’s voice. I hopped in begged the Lord to let my creation live, and turned the key. The truck coughed, shuddered and fell silent. Grandpa motioned for me to pop the hood. I did. He opened it, peering into the bowels of our contraption.
―Try it again. I turned the key. Nothing happened. My heart shrank. The hood slammed shut, revealing Grandpa. He was shaking his head.
―I don’t know, he sighed. If we want this truck to run we need Cuzzin Jimbo.
Cuzzins are commonly confused with cousins, but from a genealogical standpoint cuzzins actually fall into the same category as the skeleton-in-the-closet and Crazy Aunt Betty. Beyond that the subject of a cuzzin’s actual relation to other members of the family is not always clear. I first learned this while studying a family tree chart with my grandparents. I asked where Jimbo was and they refused to speak to me for a week. So when Grandpa suggested that we go to Cuzzin Jimbo for help I knew that he had utterly exhausted his mechanical abilities.
Grandpa and I took a moment to consider if making a deal with the devil was a better option for fixing the truck. But in the end we decided that Jimbo was more mechanically inclined. A tow truck and a few minutes later we found ourselves standing outside our cuzzin’s lair. A rusty sign over the door read JIMBO’S AUTO REPAIR – Keeping You Tired and Exhausted. I didn’t want to go in. Grandpa looked like he didn’t either.
Jimbo’s garage was a poorly lit den of iniquity. The walls were plastered in an assortment of out-of-date oil advertisements, NASCAR posters, and Sports Illustrated swimsuit calendars from decades past. Inside, the air was thick with the scents of tobacco, cheap beer and gasoline. A mangy dog growled at us from a dark corner as we stepped inside. Snores emanated from the far side of the garage. Grandpa motioned for me to wait. He walked over to the sleeping form draped across a workbench.
―Jimbo? Hey Jimbo!
The figure snorted and rolled over. Huh?
―Jimbo we were stopping by to see if you could do some work for us.
Jimbo groaned stumbled up off the workbench and scrutinized Grandpa with a fuzzy expression. According to local legend Jimbo had been wearing the same pair of Dickies overalls since the late 1960’s. He never wore anything underneath them. The addition of a few tattoos and an eye patch gave him the appearance of a land-bound pirate with extensive experience in auto repair.
―Is that you Bob?
―Yeah it’s me Jimbo. Like I was saying, we were just stopping by …
Jimbo held up his hand. Gimme a sec Bob. I jus woke up lemme get myself together.
―Sure Jimbo. No problem. We’ll just wait for you here if you need to run up to the house.
Jimbo reached down and grabbed a half-empty Mountain Dew bottle covered in greasy handprints off the workbench. He unscrewed the lid and took a swig. From his rear pocket he produced a tin of chewing tobacco.He opened it and tucked a pinch into his bottom lip. Then he shook his head, turned it one side and gripped his nose between thumb and forefinger. He forcefully expelled a blob of yellow snot from one nostril, then wiped his hand on his pantsleg.
―Aiight boys. I’m ready. What can I do for ye Bob?
―We’ve got a truck we want you to take a look at.
Jimbo noticed me standing in the entrance to the garage. It belong to the little college boy over there? Jimbo referred to anyone who had completed the sixth grade as a college boy.
―Yessir. It’s his first one. We’re trying to get it to run, answered Grandpa.
We walked out of the garage to where the truck sat in the driveway.
Jimbo looked it over and gave a low-whistle. How much ye willin to pay college boy? Tain’t nothin for free round here.
―How about we figure out what’s wrong with it and go from there? countered Grandpa.
Jimbo shrugged, Aiight. Put’er in neutral and push’er on in.
We pushed the truck inside. Grandpa popped the hood. Jimbo pulled a work lamp down from a spool on the ceiling. He propped open the hood, stepped up on the front bumper, flicked the lamp on and began to sniff the guts of the truck. He snatched a bag of zip-ties off of the bench and strategically placed a few around various hoses. Then he gently tapped on the starter with a wrench. Crank it, he said, turning to me. I stared blankly back at him.
―Go start it up, whispered Grandpa. I climbed into the driver’s seat narrowly avoiding a tobacco glob aimed in my direction and turned the key. Nothing happened. Jimbo cursed, stepped down off the front bumper and stood for a moment methodically scratching the junction of his lower anatomy. Then he hooked the truck up to a battery charger, grabbed a larger wrench, and slithered under the truck.
―Get outta here Earlene! A yelp issued from under the truck as Jimbo’s boot connected with the hindquarters of the mangy dog. Her claws scrabbled on the concrete floor as she made a hasty retreat to the dark corner and cowered there. Jimbo resumed cursing while pounding on assorted parts of the vehicle’s underbelly with the wrench.
Clank! What a bleeping mess! Bang! Did ye put this bleeping thing together all by yeself college boy? Clank! Clank! Tain’t no way this’ll ever run. Bang! Crank it! he called suddenly from under the truck. I turned the ignition and the truck coughed. The stream of profanity issuing from under the truck continued for several hours, interspersed by commands of Crank it! Outside the sky was growing dark with storm clouds. I heard thunder followed by the patter of rain on the tin roof of Jimbo’s shop.
Jimbo crawled out from under the truck and looked from me to Grandpa in the gloom. He shook his head. This thang ain’t gotta chance. Camshaft’s as warped as my mama’s wheelchair.
The garage was suddenly illuminated by a flash of lightening. The bulb in the shop lamp burst and a shower of blue sparks erupted from the battery charger. The truck came to life with a spasmodic roar. Earlene growled. She darted out from her corner and attacked one of the rear tires with rabid ferocity, then turned and ran out into the rain. The headlights of the truck flicked on, one dimmer than the other. Each emitted an unearthly glow.
―Tain’t natural, gasped Jimbo. He stumbled backwards and turned to us with the air of a man who has just seen a ghost. Tain’t right. That thang shouldn’t be runnin.
I went to pull out my wallet and found that my hands were trembling. I couldn’t wait to get behind the wheel. I asked Jimbo how much I owed him and he waved me away in horror.
―You ain’t gonna drive that thang are ye? He shook his head. Oh college boy I’m afeared for ye.
I ignored his raving and opened the driver’s side door. Jimbo turned to Grandpa and muttered, Set a beggar on horseback and he’ll ride straight to the devil. Watch him Bob.
The following Sunday Jimbo came to church for the first time in 46 years.
YOU ARE READING
My Beloved Monster: A Tale of Mechanical Horror
Humor"Set a beggar on horseback and he'll ride straight to the devil." Those were the last words Cuzzin Jimbo said to me before I climbed into Frankenstein, my first vehicle, and embarked on the ride of my life.
