The Car Bumper

You try to be everything but what you really are. You bounce around like a bumblebee in a nest of flowers but really only one of those flowers should interest you.

Justin‘s wife’s words stung now, especially as he found himself in a very uncomfortable predicament.

Standing in an auto body shop, he was trying to sell a car bumper to a man who seemed like he could care less.

‘Splain to me why I should spend more money on a bumper made in America when I can get one for half that price that was made over in China. Tell me that Mister.

But the truth was Justin couldn’t tell him why. Do it to be patriotic? Support made in America? When he opened his mouth, stupid words came out.

Ugh, well, I mean, yep, well. Then Justin laughs thinking, maybe he came up with the best answer after all.

Well, it would help me out a bit. Keep my wife off my back, show her I can do this and help pay some of the bills. You know what I mean?

When he came home from his sales job a few weeks later, his wife was sitting at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette.

There’s a pretty little piece of paper in an envelope on the coffee table for you, she said. Guess it goes without saying you know I’m keeping the trailer and I’m taking the kids. You keep doing what you’re doing or do what you want. OK, love you, baby. Bye.

Three months later, Justin’s ex-wife parked across the street from the auto supply company. When she saw Justin pull up to the curb in a brand new Ford Dually pick up truck her first thought was what idiot let him borrow that? He spotted her, smiled, waived and walked over to her.

Remember those bumblebees you were talking about a long time ago he asked. Well, it turns out I ain’t no bumblebee, and you should’ve known I don’t give a hoot about flowers.

***

That’s What We Do

There are important people in the world, very important people in the world, and then my uncle Jimmy. He’s from Scranton, where everyone thinks the world revolves around them. You know how some people are possessive about their neighborhood? Uncle Jimmy thinks he owns his neighborhood, an average blue-collar setting of three bed two bath numbers in which he lives with his wife, my aunt Gladys in the very back on a cul-de-sac. He’s an ironworker and likes to show anyone who will look, the photo of him and his buddies sitting on a steel beam in New York City sixty stories above it all. He never tires of telling me I copped out by going to college and that I can make a lot more money doing a real man’s work. He hates what he calls desk jocks, but confided in me that at a certain bar in Scranton where blue-collar workers compete with white-collar’s for bar stools and tables, he doesn’t mind it that most of them wear neckties.

“When they mess with ya, just grab that little piece hanging under the front tie, and pull. Talk about some red faces, dos guys,” he laughed, “they don’t believe in fighting, just spewing their intellectual crap.”

Uncle Jimmy liked to drive like a bat out of hell, and he didn’t like getting stuck behind a slow driver either. On this particular day he picked me up from school and we were going to have aunt Gladys famous spaghetti and meatballs. But as soon as we pulled into their neighborhood, a large delivery truck was in front of us. While it wasn’t an 18 wheeler it was big enough you couldn’t pass it and the driver was moving along at snail pace. It didn’t take long for uncle Jimmy to lay on the horn and sling his arm out the window to tell the driver to pull to the side and let him pass.

The truck driver was having none of it. In fact, he stopped at one point and uncle Jimmy was about to get out of his car and run up to the driver when he finally started to move again. Now uncle Jimmy laid on his horn and cursed and hollered, which was not unusual for him. “I’m an ironworker, boy,” he told me. “That’s what ironworker’s do.

Finally, uncle Jimmy couldn’t take it any more. Even though we were almost to his cul-de-sac he decided he was going to get that truck driver, show him who the boss was.

“Uncle Jimmy, I can practically see your house now. What’s the use of stirring anything up now? You probably will need a new horn. You laid this one the whole time,” I told him.

“I’m an ironworker, boy. We gotta do what we gotta do.” Then, as the trucker pulled into the cul-de-sac, uncle Jimmy was finally able to swerve in front of him. Now the trucker came to a stop since he couldn’t move. He got out of the truck and uncle Jimmy jumped out of his car. The trucker threw up his hands.

“Are you crazy? You have laid on your horn the whole time I’ve been in this neighborhood.”

Uncle Jimmy laughed. “That’s what ironworker’s do.”

“Huh?” said the trucker.

“Why were you driving so dang slow?” asked Jimmy.

“Because there is a $25,000 antique curio cabinet in the cargo. It’s tied down but I ain’t taking no chances.”

Suddenly aunt Gladys comes running out of the house. “Do you have it? Is that it?” she hollered.

“Have what?” replied uncle Jimmy.

“Not you dummy!” said Aunt Gladys. “The delivery driver.”

“Do you have the cabinet?” she continued.

“What cabinet?” asked uncle Jimmy.

“The cabinet I inherited from my grandmother. She died, remember?” said aunt Gladys. “Remember I told you she left me the cabinet?”

Uncle Jimmy looked down at the street and kicked at something imaginary. Probably himself.

Then I saw a broad smile come across the delivery driver’s face.

“Yes lady, I have it but I’m not delivering it!’ he shouted.

“Why not?” she asked.

“Because that’s what delivery drivers do,” he answered, and then got in his truck and slowly drove away.

***

The Routine

His mama once told him the Swiss could set a clock by him. You’re as predictable as a roach in a kitchen sink, she laughed. Mama I don’t know if I like that comparison but okay, I git cha.

While most people were just getting deep into their best sleeping Z’s, he was getting up to go to work. If he happened to wake up a little bit early, he could quietly take care of the morning wood and still have time to get to work before the sun rose in this Deep South city.

Sometimes he thought I’m only a flagman, but then he considered the dangers and the importance of his job. The dump trucks couldn’t bring gravel to the job if it weren’t for him. The steamrollers couldn’t pack the asphalt if he didn’t stop the traffic and direct it in such a way as to make everything work smoothly.

As he stood there, young and handsome in his bright orange vest, he waited for the car he knew would appear: a white old Chevy Bel Air. It fit her like a glove.

He figured her to be a waitress, probably serving breakfast at a nearby restaurant. What a beauty she was. If he timed it just right, he could stop the traffic with her as the first car, to allow the heavy equipment operators to do their job, and gain her attention as he stood proudly and performed his work. He was still trying to get the nerve up to talk to her one morning when on this particular morning, he stopped her when there was obviously no good reason to do so. There were no dump trucks pulling in or out, there were no steam rollers coming that way. When she laid on her horn like she did it stunned him. He stepped out of the way and muttered I’m sorry, even though she didn’t even hear him as she sped past him into the early morning dark.

The next morning, when his alarm clock went off, it was about as important as a fly on his arm. He rolled over and went back to sleep, waking up after his mother pounding on his door incessantly hollering get up boy get up boy what’s wrong with you?

For three days in a row, he didn’t go to work. On the fourth day, his mama gently knocked on the door this time.

Son, get up, put your clothes on. There’s some woman out there on the front porch to see you.

***

My Name is Hal

It was a beautiful sunny morning when dockworker Brandon Stanley showed up for work as he did every weekday morning. His boss had a weird smile as he pointed to a large machine that resembled a forklift on steroids.

What is that thing? asked Brandon.

Not what that thing is, replied his boss. Who is that thing?

Brandon laughed nervously, shuffled his feet.
Its name is Hal said his boss. Hal is going to help you out today.

Do what said Brandon.

You heard me, he's gonna help you out today, now get to work.

Brandon watched as Hal lifted large crates and placed them onto a nearby container. When he leaned in to try to help, that’s when Hal spoke up.

Assistance not required. Please step back for safety.

***

A few weeks later, Brandon sat in a chair and watched Hal load all of the crates onto the container. His boss walked up.

How is he doing there Brandon?

Brandon shook his head and stared at the ground.

***

A group of young women opened the door to the apartment, and immediately pulled in the man who was standing in the doorway in daisy duke blue jeans, and a tank top. As the music blared out of his portable speaker, he began to dance, to gyrate his hips and entertain the birthday girl and her friends who thought they surprised her. One of the women noticed what appeared to be a spot of water under one of the performer’s eyes. He must be sweating already, she thought. But it was then a lot more sweat poured down from his eyes.

Awe, said some of the girls, handing him a box of Kleenex. What’s your name, a cheerful blond asked.

He could barely get the words out, but he answered them.

Hal. My name is Hal, he whispered, wiping his misty eyes.

***