by Brian Hodge
Inside Bill the little nuclear pellet fed the fire that fed the coals that heated the water and fed the steam, and once again, Bill dreamed.
He first dreamed of a fine, warm place with soft light and he dreamed of mounting Maudie, his dipstick out, riding her tailpipe like he was going up a steep incline. It was a good dream, and he felt a kind of release, as if all his steam had been blown out and all his oils and fluids had been sucked from him. It was a feeling like he could collapse into a heap of smoking metal, and it felt good, this dream, but when it was over, he dreamed of falling again, and falling from way up and down fast, striking
the ground, going to pieces, squashing Dave this way and that. And when he awoke, panting heavy through his steam pipe, he found that in his sleep, during the dream about Maudie, he had squirted transmission fluid all over the floor.
(Or had it happened out of fear?)
He was glad it was dark. He was so embarrassed.
Bill looked about, but in the dark all he could see were the shapes of the other shovels. He glanced where Maudie’s shape was, and she was still and her lights were shut up tight behind their shields.
Near the wall, where Butch stayed, he heard Butch snoring, the air blowing up through his steam pipe in a loud, masculine way. The big bruiser even snored like a thug.
Rest of the night Bill tried to stay awake, to neither have the bad dream or to think of Maudie, but think of her he did, but this time, differently, not mounting her tailpipe as if trying to push up an incredible incline, but side by side with her, motoring along, the two of them blowing a common tune through their whistles, her turning her shovel to him, lifting it, and underneath, her bright red rubber bumper was parting to meet with his… and kiss.
But that wasn’t going to happen.
He was never going to kiss Maudie or mount her tail pipe.
And, the way it looked now, he was never going to build schools and churches and such for all those children, and what did he care?
Little bastards. They didn’t need that stuff anyway.
Then daylight came through the windows of the garage and turned the floor bright, like a fresh lube spill, and for a moment, Bill was renewed and hopeful and willing.
A bunch of Daves came into the garage and each of them climbed onto a steam shovel, and Bill, hoping, hoping so hard he thought he might just start his own engine and drive out of there, saw his Dave approaching.
His Dave climbed inside his little cabin and touched the controls and Bill’s motor roared. Bill felt his pistons throbbing with excitement, felt oil growing warm and coursing through his tubes and wetting up his machinery. When Dave turned him around and drove him out of the garage, he was so proud he thought he might blow a gasket.
Outside he saw sunlight shining bright off his blue shovel and he could feel the ground and gravel crunching beneath his treads, and to his left and right were the others, rolling along in line, off to work.
His dream had come true.
They motored to the site and begin to dig. It was a location that would provide space for a large apartment complex, and it was next to another large apartment complex, right across from two other large apartment complexes and a row of fast food joints, out of which came a steady stream of Daves who didn’t drive steam shovels.
The site was currently a patch of woods, a bunch of beautiful trees full of happy singing birds and squirrels at play. But fuck that. Bill and his fellow shovels were at work.
The steam shovels rode in and pushed that shit down, dug up the roots and pushed it in a pile to burn. Birds flew away and squirrels scampered for safety. Eggs in fallen bird’s nest were crunched beneath their treads.
The machines dug deep and pushed the dirt until anything that was rich with natural compost was completely scraped up and mounded, revealing clay beneath, red as a scraped wound. Half of the patch of woods was scratched away in short time, and Bill was scraping with the rest as hard as he could, knocking some of his bright blue paint off on roots and rocks. But he didn’t mind. Those were battle scars.
In the cockpit he heard Dave say, “Now we’re talking. Lookin’ good. Fucking trees. Goddamn birds. Shitting squirrels.”
About noon they stopped so the Daves could climb down and gather up and eat food and drink from the little black boxes they carried.
Bill, parked by Gabe, said, “Gabe. What about all the birds and squirrels and little animals? What about them?”
“Fug em,” said Gabe. “They’re all gone, who’ll gib a shit? Can’t fret over somethin’ ain’t around, can ya kid? ’Sides, whad’s them fuggers ever done fer ya?”
“Well…”
“Nothin’. Not a gohtdamn thang.”
“Well, yeah, I guess… But, gee, Gabe, what happens when all the world is scraped down, and they don’t need us?
“Aw, we’ll push down old buildings, scrape em down red to the clay, and they’ll build some new shit. Always somethin’ fer us to fug up so stuff can be built again. Don’t fret, kid.”
“But, don’t the children need trees for shade, and don’t trees help make the air fresh…”
“Don’t believe thad shit. Tree is a tree is a tree. Them liddle children, shit, them fuggers can wear a hat and breathe through an oxygen mask for all I care… Hey, saw yer greasy spot when you rolled out this mornin’. Kinda had ya one of em night time squirdaramas, didn’t ya?”
Bill felt embarrassed. “Well, I…”
“Fug it. It’s normal. Thinkin’ about thad liddle cuddie over there, weren’t ya, son?”
Bill looked where Maudie was at rest, next to the last line of trees. She looked bright and gold and even with dirt and clay on her shovel, she had a kind of charm, a sweetness. And a nice tail pipe.
“Well, said Gabe, “ya was thinking ’bout it, wadn’t you? That’s why ya squirded yer juice.”
“I suppose.”
“Gohtdamn, boy. Ain’t no suppose to it. Thad’s all right. Thad’s natural. Ought to try and talk ya up some of thad, thad’s what I’m trying to tell ya. Was younger, ya can bet I’d be sportin’ around her, throbbin’ my engine, whippin’ muh shovel. Muh old dipstick pokin’ up under muh hood. Hell, all I can do these days is use id to check muh oil.”
“I was wondering about that, Gabe. If the dipstick is under the hood, and the… well, you know, the ladies tail pipe is where tail pipes are… How does that work, Gabe?”
Gabe laughed. “Ya kiddin’, ain’t ya? Naw, gohtdamnit, ya ain’t. Well, son, on the old underbelly is another panel, and ya get stiff and pokey, it hits the hood, but when ya want to do the deed, ya see, ya led thad little section underneath ya pop open, stick lowers, and, well, son, ya’ll figure it out. Promise. Figured out in ya sleep, didn’t ya? Old parts and lines knew whad to do without no thinkin’ on yer part.”
“I didn’t say I was going to do anything—”
“—shit, boy. Ain’t nothin’ wrong wid wantin’ a piece of tail pipe. Oh, and I been thinkin’ on yer dream, and I know someone might be able to help ya on that. Can figure it… But later. Here come duh Daves. Time to gid wid it.”
They went back to work, and pretty soon Dave said to Bill, “Bill, we got a big old stubborn tree that just won’t go, and we got to push it down so we can scrape the clay. I think you’re ready for it. Am I right? Are you ready?”
Bill rumbled his engine and whistled air through his steam pipe in response.
“All right, you little shovel, let’s do er.”
And away they went. Bill lifted his shovel and poked it out and Dave guided him to the tree. It was a big old tree and round enough that four men with their hands linked couldn’t have surrounded it. Must have been hundreds of years old, but Bill, he was determined it wasn’t going to get a day older.
He put out his shovel and began to push. He pushed hard, giving it all he had. He revved up his engine and whistled his steam and dug in with his treads and…
The tree didn’t move.
He revved up higher and pushed an
d pushed and…
Nothing.
He might as well have had his engine turned off and be sitting in the garage with a tread up his exhaust.
He pushed harder, and…
He cut one. A big one. It came out of his exhaust with a kind of blat-blat-blat sound.
Bill couldn’t believe it. He had cut a fart to end all farts, and right in front of Dave and all the other steam shovels. He turned one of his head beams slowly, looked to his right, and there was Maudie. She was so shocked the split in her front bumper hung open showing her gear-cog teeth (all perfect and shiny), and Bill, he wanted to just run off a cliff. But there weren’t any cliffs. Just that big tree standing upright in front of him, and he hadn’t done any more than crack a little bark.
“Well,” said Bill’s Dave, “this is just too much for you. We’ll have to get a bigger and better machine. One that can do the job. And we might want to cut back on that cheap transmission fluid, boy.”
Dave backed Bill off from the tree, stood up in the cab and called out, “You better bring in Butch. This is a job for a real steam shovel.”
Bill felt his body droop on its treads. His shovel hit the ground with a thud.
He was not only a weakling and a farter, he was being beat out by his worst enemy.
Butch revved his engine and threw out his shiny shovel and went up against the tree, and at first Bill thought: Well, he won’t do it either.
The tree stood firm, not moving, and then, suddenly, it began to lean and lean and lean, and there was a cracking sound, then a cry of roots and timber like the sound of something being jerked from its womb, and the great tree went down, the roots popping up, clay flying from them in red clunks.
Butch backed off, lifted his shovel, and with a sort of slide, treaded back to the center of the work force.
Bill saw Maudie turn and look to him, and her bumper was split wide again. But this time, she was smiling.
Back in the barn, Bill sat alone as the windows turned dark. Gabe came rolling over.
“Ya all right, son?”
“I guess.”
“Damn, boy. Can’t believe ya farded. Thad one knocked a bird out of a tree, gabe us all an oil stink ya wouldn’t believe. A fard like that, ya must hab passed into another dimension for awhile. Yer gohtdamn headbeams crossed, you cut wind so hard.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Ah, don’t led it bother you. I led fards all the time. And sometime on purpose… Big ole tree like thad, it ain’t for a kid. I couldn’t do it. Well, in my day I could.”
“Young as me?”
“Oh, yeah. Damn, what a fard.”
“Please, Gabe. Don’t mention it anymore.”
“All right. But, son, it was a champion.”
Bill sighed.
“Ya know, I told ya I had someone could tell ya ’bout them dreams yer always having?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m gonna bring him over. Sid tight.”
Gabe rolled away, and a moment later, Bill saw him return with an old gray steam shovel who had steam coming up from between his bumpers. When he got closer, Bill saw that it wasn’t steam at all, he was smoking a metal pipe stuffed with old oily shop rags.
“This is Professor Zoob,” Gabe said.
“Ah, how are you ma boy?”
“Fine… I guess. Why haven’t I seen you before?”
“I am in the back of the garage, yes. I hang there and do little jobs. Push garbage about. But I am old and they do not call me out much. I would think, soon, I will be for the scrap machine, yes. I have been around for many years, I have, and was driven by a student of much psychology. He studied in my cockpit during his breaks, yes. And when he did, he read aloud from his books, and I listened. I learned much. I learned much about dreams, I did.”
“Really?”
“Yes. And before we analyze them, might I say, that I heard about today, about your trouble with the tree and the tremendous fart.”
“From Gabe, I suppose.”
“Oh, from everyone. It was quite some joke, it was.”
“Grand.”
“But, if you will tell me your dreams, let me consider on it, maybe I can help you understand.”
“I don’t know.”
“Sure. Sure. Try me.”
“Well, there’s only one that concerns me, really scares me.
Zoob puffed his pipe faster, sending up a haze of smoke.
“That really stinks,” Bill said. “And isn’t that bad for you?”
“Of course, but at my age, why would I give a shit? I use a seven percent solution of oil and transmission fluid. The rags burn slower, and in their haze, I think big thinks, I do. And could it stink any worse than the whopper you cut loose with today, huh?”
“I’ll never live that down, will I?”
“Won’t be easy,” Gabe said.
“The dream?” Zoob said.
Bill told him about the dream, about the darkness and the falling and the smashing, and Zoob said, “When you are falling. What is it you smell?”
“Smell?”
“Yes. Do you smell anything? Hear anything? Taste anything?”
“Why no. It’s a dream.”
“Ah, but there are dreams where one can hear or smell or taste. Have you not had the dreams about the lady steam shovels, and how that feels and smells and tastes, with the after bite of steam on the tail pipe, huh, have you not?”
“I… I suppose.”
“Yes, of course, you can. You can smell things in a dream if there is something to smell.”
“Hope ya can’t smell thad fard in one,” Gabe said. “Thad would peel duh paint right off.”
“That’s enough,” Bill said.
“Well, then, my little friend, think this, do you remember anything in the darkness of your dream? Anything at all? Anything in the shadows?”
“No.”
“Ah, then we must resort to the hypnotism.”
“What?”
“Hypnotism. Now,” Zoob said rolling back a pace. “I’m going to swing my shovel back and forth, and I want you to watch, listen only to the sound of my voice, and watch the shovel please. There is a small, silver spot scraped near the center of it, and that’s what I want you to concentrate on… Ready?”
Bill watched the shovel swing back and forth and Zoob said soothing things and no one mentioned the fart and pretty soon Bill was feeling sleepy, a little dizzy, as if he might fall over, then he felt like he was in a tunnel, and the only light in the tunnel was the shiny spot on Zoob’s shovel, and the tunnel was swaying, and then it went still, and there was just the spot before him, like a beacon, and, Zoob’s voice, easy and soft and suggestive.
“Now, Little Bill, you are in the dream. All dark. Tell me now, what is happening in this falling dream? Tell me.”
“Well, let me see. It’s dark… That’s it. It’s dark.”
“Listen carefully, Little Bill. You are in this bad dream. And it’s dark—”
“And you’re in there wid thad fard,” Gabe said, and chuckled.
“Silence, Gabe,” Zoob said. “No more with the fart… Now, you are in the bad dream, in the dark, and you are falling. Are you there, Little Bill?”
“Yes,” Bill said. And he was in the dream all right. And it was dark. No little scrape of light visible. And he was falling. And he felt the old fear rise up out of the darkness and come over him in a rush.
“Shit,” Bill said.
“Now,” said Zoob, “you are falling, and you are feeling the shit feeling, and I want you to slow this fall, and I want you to look about you…It’s all right. You’ll be all right. You should not be scared this time. We have control over this dream, you and I, and you are falling slow and you can take the time to look about. You look about you now, and you listen, and you tell Zoob what it is you see and hear, or smell. You tell me everything, Little Bill, yes.”
“Yes… I… I am falling, and it’s dark, and I’m scared and I can see to my right that ther
e’s a shape.”
“What is this shape?”
“I…I don’t know.”
“Yes. Yes, you do. We stop the fall. You hang in mid-air. You study the shape and it is…?”
“It’s a… It’s a Dave.”
“A Dave, huh? Ah hah. Go on, Little Bill.”
“He’s standing in the shadows… He’s getting around fine in the dark—”
“He familiar with the place,” Zoob said.
“Yes, it’s his home. There are all kinds of machines and gadgets there.”
“Like what?”
“A refrigerator, and there’s a little light. I guess I didn’t notice it before. The Dave is opening the refrigerator and taking something out and the light is coming from there.”
“The refrigerator light,” Zoob said. “He’s getting food. They are always with the food, which is why, over the years, you got the same driver, his ass gets heavy. It makes them blow up like a hot valve. But, go on, Little Bill.”
“He’s turning, his elbow is hitting something… Something on the stove, and it’s falling off.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Take yourself some closer.”
“I don’t want to.”
“It is quite all right, Little Bill. Go closer.”
“It’s a waffle iron.”
“No shit?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It is a waffle iron. Now that is some confusing business… Ah, ah… Okay, what else do you see, Little Bill?”
“Nothing. It’s all gone black.”
“Wake up.”
Bill opened his head lamps.
“Wow,” he said.
“Ain’t that some shit?” Zoob said. “One time, in the mirror, I hypnotize myself into thinking I am one big chicken. Tried to roost on top of the garage, but ended up pushing down the wall. Oh, the Daves were mad that day.”
“But… What about me?”
“You are the waffle iron.”
“Beg pardon.”
“The waffle iron and many things. Old metals. Busted parts. They were melted down to make you, and the memories of before, they are in the metal. Are at least certain memories. Like the fall. That was traumatic, and the memory, a little metal ghost, it stayed with the metal. The waffle iron, it must have become part of the mainframe that holds your memories. That is it, Little Bill. You remember the fall, and therefore, you dream of it and you fear it.”
