Firing Up The Old Studebaker

Get in and hang on! - 📖 FLASH FICTION

EL DORADO COUNTY, 1949

The rain started suddenly and unexpectedly about three o'clock. The sky turned a pale muddy brown, bringing shadows into the room. A brief smattering of very large drops gave warning at the south window and then the entire sky opened up like a sieve. The rain descended with a startling ferocity, rattling on the corrugated tin roof of the pantry like a snare drum. For five minutes it fell so hard they couldn't hear each other speak. They stood at the window and watched it come down. The brindled hound looked startled and walked under an azalea bush.

“That dog! He does not have the sense that God gave a goose,” observed Louvina.

“I best be getting on back,” Bartle said. “I thank you, Louvina, for allowing me to visit you today. I didn't mean to stay so long and take up your time. I'll be here on Tuesday to fix that cistern cover for you. Laying his hand on her shoulder, he hurriedly rose to get his coat and hat.

“Nonsense, Bartle. You are not walking home in this deluge!” exclaimed Louvina. “We'll take the truck. I am happy to drive you home. Won't take twenty minutes to go around there.” She grabbed her galoshes, which were standing near the door, and pulled them on with gusto.

“No, no. I couldn't ask you to do that,” he protested. “A little rain never hurt anybody. It is only a three-mile walk across that hill. It'll do me good.”

She paid him no mind. “Let's go out to the shed and fire her up. That truck hasn't been out for a long while,” she said with surprising enthusiasm. She rummaged in a drawer for a key, took her brown canvas barn coat from the peg and jammed on her head a green knitted cap with the word *DEERE* worked in across the cuff. She made sure her stove was off and pulling him to the back door by his sleeve, ran out into the rain. They were drenched before they made it to the shelter of the shed.

“This was my brother’s old truck,” she said excitedly. “It's a '35 Studebaker. It's the first vehicle I have ever owned, and though I am aware it is an eyesore, I feel about sixteen years old when I get in behind the wheel!” 

To tell the truth, there was no surface on that truck larger than ten square inches that was not dented. It sat slightly lower on the right side than on the left, the springs having evidently succumbed asymmetrically to the force of gravity. Originally it was a dark green, but a few pieces of the exterior had been replaced over the years. It now looked like patchwork. One fender was shiny gray, one was dull brown, and the bed was the color of cheese. The large quantity of red parts was mostly rust.

She yanked open the door, which buckled and screeched from sitting damp for too long a time. The brindled hound came tearing around the corner of the shed at the sound and bounded up into the driver's seat, smearing mud everywhere.

“Scoot on over Maggie,” Louvina yelled, and gave him a shove that landed him mostly on Bartle's lap.  The inside of the truck had the heady aroma of fourteen years of stale cigarette smoke, mummified mouse, wet fur, dog breath and petroleum. 

“Louvina, the gas fumes in here are so powerful they leave a taste on the back of my tongue. We’ll have to fix that right off if you plan on driving this thing anywhere serious,” he warned. He had to roll down the window, no matter if a hurricane was coming.

Bartle slid himself over right up next to the door to make room for Maggie's front paws someplace other than on his crotch. “Why in heaven's name is this dog called Maggie when it is obvious he is of the male persuasion?” asked Bartle. 

“Calum named him Magnus when he was just a pup,” explained Louvina, “before the dog's true nature was revealed. But it is just too burdensome a name for a hound of dubious ancestry to live up to, don't you think? He answers to Maggie all right. Actually, he will answer to Susan if you have a bacon biscuit in your hand,” she laughed, working to get the key into the ignition.

After three tries and a lot of grinding on the part of the starter, the dormant engine was recalled to life. In her zeal, Louvina had possibly pumped the accelerator a few times too many. There was a minor explosion, and a disconcerting plume of black smoke discharged from the tail pipe.

“Bartle”, she said, looking into his brown eyes, “I have no driver's license, and I confess I haven't actually driven this truck anywhere much. I am still learning to wind my way through these gears, but I am fully confident I can get you home alive … sometime before noon tomorrow!” she shouted, laughing again. “Now the windshield wiper switch. Where is that?” Maggie was sitting up staring out the windshield. He didn't care who was driving, he was ready to go. As for Bartle, he decided to shut up and hang on for the entire five miles.

Following a few faulty experiments in which she tried to find reverse gear without benefit of the clutch, Louvina finally backed slowly out of the shed, dragging quite a long string of ivy that had caught onto the bumper. She forced the gear shift into first and rolled out onto the drive, narrowly missing an old wash tub. Inching forward, the truck lurched like a snake-shy horse. She found second gear eventually. The transmission was dangerously close to surrender.

“I do know where the gears are, Bartle,” she assured him, “but sometimes I can't find them right off. I am not causing any damage to this truck, am I?” she asked.

“Oh... no Louvina,” he said, wincing. “Well, yes, you are a little, but you'll get the hang of it. Just remember that it is a good idea to engage the clutch before you shift, not as an afterthought. It works a little smoother that way. And also you might not want to step on the gas and the clutch at the same time. It is not the most effective maneuver.” He admired her gumption, but he found himself gripping the door handle.

In a few minutes, they were jouncing somewhat erratically down the rutted, unpaved single-track road in the downpour. They were going at a good clip, maybe ten miles an hour - he didn't know, exactly, because the speedometer needle lay quivering at the bottom of the gauge. Louvina hung on to the wheel, looking confident.

“I think I will just stay in second gear,” she announced, “because I know exactly where that one is.” The tires bounced, slipped and slid in and out of the muddy craters, but Louvina seemed on the verge of whistling a tune, she was having so much fun. Maggie's tail was beating time with the wind-shield wipers. He turned and gave Bartle's angular jaw an affectionate lick.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Bartle thought. He was getting more religious by the mile.

This is one of my favorite bits from Bartle Clunes. The entire tale is presented chapter by chapter in the Bartle Clunes archive. CLICK HERE to have a quick look.