Decline and Fall of Alternative Civilization

by G S Oldman

  ~ ~ ~

  At the dirty vehicle it was ten minutes before the motley cast and crew finished their chatting and goodbye-ing and settled into their brightly hungover places. Dedra crawled up into the loft and wedged herself next to a soundly snoring Prez. She tickled him to see if he would wake up. He grumbled and rolled away from her. Bryan slouched into the passenger seat and belched loudly. June shifted around in the driver's seat, grabbed the steering wheel and extended a hand, fingers wiggling, in front of the guitarist and demanded, "Keys." He dug into his shirt pocket, pulled them up with a jingle and slapped them into her palm. She jammed in the ignition key, stomped on the gas pedal twice, three times, twisted the key, the engine turned over. And over, and over. She stopped. Stomp on the gas pedal; try again. Engine turned over, over, and over?stop. An unintelligible complaint issued from the loft. June tried starting the van one more time. Nothing. Bryan began prodding the gauntlet.

  "You didn't flood it, did you?"

  "I don't know."

  "Let it rest for a coupla minutes."

  The Hinkle, eyeing a dilemma, walked across the parking lot. "You guys OK?" he asked, leaning in the passenger window.

  "She flooded it," said Bryan.

  "No I didn't."

  "Did."

  "Did not."

  "Did!"

  "Fuck you!"

  From the loft, Dedra's chuckling alternated with the sound of snoring. Hinkle barged in with, "We'll stick around if you guys need any help."

  "Thanks, Hinkie," said June very businesslike. Hinkle talked in the profusely happy manner that so annoyed her. She didn't pay any attention to what he said and hoped the van would start soon so they could get away from him. After a few minutes there was a problem that left no choice but to consult Prez.

  "Prez. Prez," nagged Dedra, "Wake up."

  A grumbling snore. Prez had slept more than anyone. He didn't get laid but he easily drank more than anyone else had and passed out early in the van.

  "Prez. If you don't get up I'm gonna tickle you for eleven seconds."

  He snarled from under the sleeping bag, "Leeme alone."

  "No, you gotta get up."

  "Go 'way."

  "Prez, you're naked." She pulled the sleeping bag off of him. "Naked man! Naked man!"

  "Leave me the fuck alone, dammit!" He was fully clothed and attacking Dedra. He landed a blind shot upside her head. She screamed and kicked him back, madly giggling. He grabbed for the bag and caught her arm in an uncoordinated grip.

  "Hey! We can't get the van started!" interjected Bryan.

  The fighting ceased. Prez sank back down and closed his eyes. "Shit," he said. He snatched the sleeping bag back from Dedra.

  "Can you help us, please?"

  "Fuck." With a pitiful expression he scratched his head and groped for his shoes. "OK?OK. Anything you want, massa. Jus' keep Miss Birdpoop away from me."

  Dedra settled into a pile of blankets and smiled as Prez oozed out the side door. She felt very tired and closed her eyes. When Prez hit the ground his knees buckled and he fell forward onto his hands. Bryan invoked, "Hair of the dog."

  "NOooo," moaned Prez. Hinkle jumped to his aid and helped him up, babbling, "Hey, man, take it easy. You want some coffee? I'll go inside and get you some coffee if you need it."

  "No, no, I'm OK?I think."

  "You sure?"

  "Yeah, yeah. What was your name again?"

  He started saying something but Prez was in no shape to listen. June got out of the van and walked around to them. She gently grabbed Prez by the shoulders. "Tenemos un problema."

  "?Problema?"

  "No va."

  "?No va?"

  "No va."

  "Caramba. Lemme take a look," he yawned. "Lemme take a muthafucking look."

  Prez was a mechanic who looked first and asked for details later. June popped the latch. He leaned against the grille, gripping it with both hands and resting his forehead against the edge of the upraised hood. Somewhere in the parking lot a gaggle of birds clustered in song, a Cadillac started up, he grunted and closed seasick eyes.

  "It'll be OK," said June, patting him on the back.

  "You promise?"

  "I'll buy you a Latina Barbie."

  "Oooh, nice. Sue?o y sexo con la chica hermosa."

  She laughed.

  "Don't laugh so loud."

  "Does it hurt?"

  "Shhh." He peeked into the engine compartment.

  "Shhh." June aped him

  "Cut it out. Hey, what'd you do with the distributor cap?"

  "Huh?" She gaped open-mouthed. "Oh no. Who? How did that?"

  Hinkle said, "Man, someone kiped your cap."

  "Who's got the cap?" Prez asked June.

  "Hey, what's the deal?" crabbed Bryan, sitting in the cab.

  June walked around, arms folded, and frowned. "Someone stole our distributor cap."

  "No way," he said.

  June's face didn't change. "Come see for yourself."

  He put a hand to his forehead and his body stiffened. She ambled back to the front of the dead vehicle and watched Prez counting the loose spark plug and coil wires. "They're all here," he mumbled. "No problem."

  "No problem?"

  "No. No flannel."

  Hinkle jumped in. "Hey, man, there's a Pep Boys right across the highway. What's a new one cost? Five or six bucks? We can cover you if you want. What's that about flannel?"

  Prez wouldn't look up. She sensed he wanted to do the man harm. She hoped he would.

  "June," he said, gathering himself, "could you do me a big favor? Could you get me my toolbox out of the van and bring it to me?" He only spoke this seriously when seriously annoyed. At any moment a cranky legion of lowriders could mobilize, fingers itching above the lift buttons like a squadron of B-17s-bombardiers poised above their target-Kandy Kolored Chevys coming, coming, twice pipes singing ancient Aztec chants.

  On the blacktop he rifled through the Craftsman tool case, pulling out a handful of wrenches and ratchet extensions and-from the bottom where it sat next to a pearl-handled switchblade-he raised a crusty distributor cap wrapped in a rag. It was identical to the one that was missing. Standing, Prez smiled. "Knew this would come in handy someday."

  Hinkle questioned why anyone would steal their own distributor cap. He thought it was kind of a dumb thing to do. June's eyes caught her bandmate's glare and quickly traveled to the pretty switchblade resting next to a breaker bar. She locked eyes with Prez again.

  Gus from CrabAbble came over and said, "Hey, Hinkley. We need to talk to you a minute." They both stepped away to the other van. Relieved, she whimpered.

  "I'd really like to take heem on a tour of thee neighborhood, ese. Show heem thee sights." He hissed in exaggerated cholo. "?Puto chingado!"

  June sidled next to him and said, "You would, wouldn't you."

  "I cut you, mon. I cut you real good, mon."

  "What's the story with this cap, huh?"

  Prez coughed a sinister chuckle. "Some friends of mine been hit by the Capper before. I found this one in a junkyard a few weeks back. Free. Figured, why not have a spare handy?"

  "You're an angel." June gave him a hug and planted a kiss on his cheek.

  "Some people travel with a rabbit's foot. I keep a distributor cap." He clipped the cap onto the distributor and, one by one, reconnected the wires. When done, he wiped his hands on the rag and solemnly said, "That should do it."

  June climbed into the driver's seat and noticed the van across the parking lot having trouble starting. Bryan, gazing out the window stoically, had noticed too. She turned the key in the ignition. The engine instantly roared to life. Dedra had fallen asleep. Prez shut the hood and was replacing tools into his toolbox when the hood of the other van went up. Gus and a couple of guys advanced across the parking lot with concern and they struck up a conversation with the mechanic. Hinkle was not with them. Prez's face told June al
l she needed to know. She killed the engine and slouched back into the seat, staring at Bryan.

  "Hair of the dog?"

  "Crack of the ass," he shot back.

  She slouched down further. Prez accompanied the three others to their van. When he looked into their engine compartment he started laughing. No one else did. After a few minutes he walked back, put his tools away, and with an expansive smirk, lounged on the lip of the side cargo door.

  "Do they need help?" asked Bryan.

  "They need a distributor cap," he cackled. "Tey don' have an extra, hehehehe!"

  "I don't believe this," said June.

  "I do." It was the first time Bryan had reason to smile that day. "And it couldn't have happened to a sweller bunch of guys and gals, thank you. God bless the Capper," he said in his best imitation of Bugs Bunny, "And, aaahh, god bless Mr. Scrooge too, Doc."

  Someone smartly dispatched Hinkle to the Pep Boys. When both vans got back on the highway, no one had seen the stickers attached to their respective rear bumpers. They appeared cut from a larger sticker-red lettering on black. One said "The Road," the other said "Forever." No one noticed until their next stop.

  XVIII

  "Dreams are free, motherfucker!"

  -Mike Watt

  Sounds of burnt gases echoed through the brightness, winding down the tubes on their way to the sidepipes. Singing Ho-sanna! HiPo-sanna! Ford-sanna! Ho! Heaven and Earth are filled with your presence! Glory to octane in the highest and praise to the stroke before top dead center! Thy compression come, thy ignition done on spark as it is on leaded. Give us this air our daily combustion and though we err?and though we breathe?forgive us our misses as we forgive our fuel. For thine is the timing and the power and the torque, cranking, lifting, and dropping it to the ground forever and ever, gentlemen, start your engines.

  Amen.

  JHH pulled from beneath the crippled hulk of a car that no longer ran. Scraping a wad of undercarriage grime from his forehead, he eyed the faded green paint job that had seen better days. Leaning back on his elbows, the sound of cooling metal ping, pinged again. In the shadows under the engine the slow round of oil formed directly below the rear main bearing, and it trailed blackly down the road in a thin note of failure that sustained like Eric Dolphy-a high F on a low clarinet. Oil, the dark irrigation of an industrious revolution, where the prehistorious meets the asphalt pretencia, pale notions gazing into a brooding sun.

  This was a haystack surprise stuffed beside an old abandoned barn. A fine example of a Dearborn chicken coop, almost the embodiment of the old joke: Found On Road Dead. $100 and haul it off, but that would be too easy. He got it started and a week later returned with tools, jacks, fluids, oil, gas cans. Everything a pit mechanic could need. Leaving the '56, he got behind the wheel, a pit man's prayer, off to the races or however far he could get it. The rest was up to fate and advanced applications of paper clips, duct tape and spit.

  On the cusp of Springtime the road was hot, the engine hotter, all JHH needed was to get the car home under its own power. Any old American V-8 could run on half its cylinders if need be and this rattling Mustang was no exception. '65, a good year; 289, a good motor. It was all that mattered in the remaining daylight. The round of oil formed outward and outward and off the edge of the asphalt, the block and manifolds pinged cooler, the radiator hissed like a snake lulling its nest to sleep while he laid back on the ground. Closing his eyes, he listened to the strains of a concerto mechanique that faded into an empty landscape upon which the ghosts of a thousand race cars made unscheduled pit stops. The apparition of the track's flagman raised a black cloth to the sky, a wrench was in JHH's hand, the Singing Sword chasing the Ionic Fantastic, waiting for a slicing flash of just the right stuff. Bowing in knowing samurai gesture, he dropped the shiny tool to the first bolt.

  Some men believe in work. They alternate their days between labor and leisure and then they sleep. In sleep they dream of worlds and riches that don't exist.

  Some men believe in work as a means to an end. They labor without regard for leisure. They fever through their labor storing up indulgences to someday carry them through the doorway of Kingdom to be rewarded with leisure or at least sleep. And in their sleep they dream of worlds and riches that can never be.

  Some men simply believe. Between labor and leisure there is no distinction and there is no sleep until it is time to dream. As in labor, in sleep they dream of all that is and all that can be.

  All that a man holds in his hand or in consideration becomes the language through which he speaks. All that he holds in regard likewise becomes the basis of the dreams through which he thinks-and all other language and thought become secondary. Thinking and thought pound across all other sentiments thinking something else-the old, the new, the borrowed, the blues, the blacks, the natives, the immigrants, the songs. All the songs.

  On wheels of steel are DJs driving beats, trains driving rhythms, rains and winds driving ideas through skies and against the ground. Travelers move ahead to the next bandstand at a secluded roadside table. They enjoy a cigarette, all songs caught in a crossfade of time and coincidence.

  Two thoughts slyly meeting beneath a serviette?