Trinkets, Cars, and the Captious
Short Story
by Matt Sargent
Losing momentum, the dark grey sedan cut a b line from the two lane
highway onto the gravel clearing. The car was heavy and continued forward
parting patches of light dry dirt and still kicking up small stones,
jutting over the larger unbroken rocks. Maneuvering around the rustic
gasoline pumps, now used as frame posts for tacky advertisements, the
sedan slowed to a stop. Travis opened the driver side door, quickly
stepped out, closed it, and walked around the sedan's rear to open the back
door.
A delicate manicured hand grasped the top of the car window, its
man ring shined, and its owner sighed as he came completely to his own
feet. The two men walked off of the gravel drive way and to the front
of an off white garage, which was in dire need of a paint job.
Odd sized buckets of trinkets and other useless things from the local
area were holding up signs telling the consumer that it would cost them
more than a pittance for original, hand-crafted, locally made children's toys and what was being called art.
They both curiously panned the
landscape; nothing but shrubs that would look better in color.
With shorter strides, Travis walked slightly behind and to the left of
his employer towards the side door of the garage. He passed the
buckets and knocked on the door while his employer took notice of the junk
inside the buckets and lifted one of the trinkets. The bottom of the
locally made trinket read Product of France. Winston smiled. He lost
interest and before the cracked pavement shattered it, Travis returned
it to the original small tub of junk.
No answer at the door, I'll try
around back, sir. Winston waited while his driver walked around the
garage, lit a cigarette, and sighed audibly with each exhale.
Travis rapped on the door of, by his assessment, a modest but well kept
home. He knocked four times then checked his pocket watch. The door
opened. In the doorway stood a middle-aged man of a little below average
height, balding. He stood with a slight pot belly in front of a
slender frame, and hands grayed dark with the stain of grease, holding what
was left of a piece of fried chicken. Travis thought this man stunk,
Good God.
Evenin', what can I do for you? Batteries low, broken down?
Good evening, sir. My employer Mr. Winston Jamie's car is not
drive-able, we managed to coast here to your garage .
You said drive-able, who was driving and why? I could reset your auto
controls if you'd like, is everything o.k.?
Sir- Travis started.
I'm not a sir, I work for a living , he joked. Please call me Lucien
he said as he awkwardly jabbed out his right had.
Travis met Lucien's hand half-way and they shook as he explained, I'm
Travis, Mr. Jamie actually prefers to be driven, he has all of the
necessary permits. About a quarter mile back the sedan stopped responding-
Lucien interrupted, Sorry, but I still don't get why you were driving
the thing.
Travis shot back; As I have said, Mr. Jamie prefers to be driven.
Lucien had heard of such people, the ones who refused to submit as
they put it to Big Brother's Safe Driving Network. And he wasn't going
to let on he was aware of them as real. Lucien admitted then, only to
himself, his nostalgia of his youth; of driving, of the butterflies his
stomach used to cage every time he saw a squad car while driving home
after tying one on, and the shakes he would get after narrowly avoiding
this or that almost fatal crash, he remembered road rage.
I'll have a look, but sounds like your manual controls blew out. Not
really suppos'd to be used. But - guess you know that already .
They started slowly around the house, in the direction of the garage
with Lucien setting the pace. Lucien was curious as to why this man
repeatedly checked an old style pocket watch, surely he must know that this
will take time; he thought that if Travis and this Mr. Jamie were short
on time, they had loads of it now. He was not ready to stop pressing
Travis about driving the car, Preference, huh? he snorted. You prefer
to drive and the rest of us prefer safety, whatever Travis said back to
him registered only as captious; wreaking of caprice.
Travis didn't take to this man's method of dancing in and out of
articulation, and swore it was purposeful.
They rounded the garage's corner, that's when Lucien saw Mr. Jamie;
tall, in shape, standing in shiny black shoes and neatly pressed lavender
slacks. Lucien thought, only thing missing was a pullover draping the
shoulders of his perfectly fitted golf shirt; an abominable combination
of colors that didn't belong in the same room together let alone on the
same shirt; he thought of a rodeo golfer, disgusting. Lucien tried to
shake hands after he walked up, Name's- ; Mr. Jamie seemed not to
notice anything other than his car, and not Travis as he popped the hood.
Lucien ducked his head under the hood, almost holding his breath,
thinking caustically that this guy must read minds.
Mr. Jamie ya might wunna call for 'nother car.
Why would we want to do that? Travis responded for the Mister then
checked that damned watch again.
Honestly, I can't fix this Lucien smoothed his remaining hair, anna
'nother car shouldn't take too long but we already know that don't we?
What kind of mechanic are you anyway?
Travis, I am a modern mechanic.
Surprised by Lucien's articulation of modern, Travis let out a
child-like hiss: Meaning?
This straightened Lucien's back, he turned, his look
sideways, and for the first time met Mr. Jamie's eyes.
Meaning, I can - but won't - fix your car.
So you're the kind of mechanic that will make no money today.
Look 'round you, or at me. See anythin' that tells ya I give two shits? Thing is 'ya need to call somebody to come an 'getcha. Lucien grinned, Save yourselves some time.
Trinkets, Cars, and the Captious© COPYRIGHT 2005 Matt Sargent.
Reproduction prohibited without permission from the author.
05/18/05
