Jerry - Part 3 - dec. 99
by: R L Stephenson

        
     Jerry opens the doors to the sheet metal barn. "His place". Do not enter with out the master. The workbench was spit shined and clean. All of the tools lay in their place. Ready to use. The air compressor lay temporarily dormant with the impact wrench hose still connected and neatly coiled on the side of the canister. The chrome bath was empty but various pieces lay ready for a face lift. The cold concrete floor was clean enough to dine on. Not a spot of grease lay under any car. No oil. No antifreeze. No power steering fluid. Nothin'! Even the ashtrays strategically placed around the entire barn are empty and clean. He is proud of his little castle and his children on display. They mean more to him than his two daughters and grand children. They don't talk back but purr on command. The repairs are cheaper than doctor bills, and you don't have to sit in a waitin' room with snivelin' kids. He lives for the smell of leather seats and burning rubber, the sound of a fine tuned engine and the feel of wind rushing through his hair when the top is down.
     Nine cars in all live here with the parts to build a couple more neatly hung on the walls. Malibu SS made the majority of the flock. An Impala, a Monte, and of course the "New Baby". Most of the cars were from the 60's and early 70's. The "New Baby" was sleek. A convertible '62 Caddy with the short trimmed tail wings. A rarity to say the least. Trudy told him it was a good find and he snatched it up quick. Hours under the hood, days rebuilding the heart and soul. He was meticulous and detailed as ever. His "Masterpiece" for Trudy. The Pope never saw Michael toil as hard. It was flaming metallic gold and trimmed out in perfection. Show ready and itchin' for a drive. He climbs in and turns the key.
     She turns over instantly. He gets lost in the rumble of the motor. A tear flows down his cheek and splashes on his coveralls as he rests his forehead on the steering wheel. Jerry's eternal loneliness. He turns the motor off and sits there till the sun disappears over the ridge. Feeling the chill he locks the barn and heads back to the house. The cat scurries by his leg as he opens the door.

     Stepping through the door the house is immediately different.
There had been an intruder to his solitude, an invasion of his hermitage.
The kitchen was spotless. The sink cleared and scrubbed clean.
The cat whipped it's tail dancing over the clean garage sale dishes filled with fresh food and water. Darting up stairs to check the bedrooms, they're all perfect. Sheets changed, beds made with military corners, the fireplace in the master bedroom was swept clean and set with new logs ready to light. The shoes in the closets neatly arranged and all of his shirts hung in the same direction. The white porcelain god gleamed in the pine scented bathroom, free of the animal spray marking it's territory. Even Jim Morrison looked better in the clean mirror. Washing his face with ice cold water. Shocking his reality with crispness. Had he been sleep walking this morning? Was it a carbon monoxide nightmare induced by the gentle hypnotic purr of the "New Baby", transporting him in to a false sense of security? A step back in time?

To be continued…