Hot Rod Parts by Wade Harris

Walt Granger was dead.

Funeral felt like a union meeting, just better beer, and nobody bitching about payroll.

Every mechanic in Grimes County showed up in dirty jeans and boots.

Each one dropped a used socket in the casket.

He was upside down, just like he wanted.

“Surrounded by chrome, and face down so the whole world can kiss my goddamn ass.”

Everything I know under the hood, I learned with Walt, smoking a Camel behind me.

Started at sixteen.

First week, he told me if I called an engine a “motor” again, he’d revoke my birth certificate.

Back then Granger’s Garage was small, hot, and dusty.

Nothing more than a lift, greasy floor, and a broken fan.

Randy and I were his only employees.

He loved to fuck with Randy.

One time, for a week, Randy kept saying “Fuckin’ tow truck smells like ass.”

Walt had hidden a turd in the A/C cowl intake.

We cried laughing for days.

He never figured it out.

The only thing you never fucked with was the car lift.

Walt about killed Randy once when he tapped the release lever while I was under it.

Fired his dumbass right then and there.

“GODDAMNIT RANDY YOU COULD HAVE KILLED HIM! GET YOUR TOOLS AND GET THE FUCK OUT!”

Home then was meaner than work.

One day I showed up with a shiner.

Walt pulled me aside after work.

“You slip a wrench or some shit?”

“No.”

“Alright, that fucker ain’t doing it again, c’mon.”

First time I got to ride in Black Bastard.

Last time I saw my old man.

Walt let me move into the loft at his place. Smelled like old oil and Camels.

Nights there I’d sometimes spot him in the garage, crying, holding a small book.

Never let me see what it was.

Grandma always said you never get over the death of a child.

Lenora couldn’t take it.

She went home early.

She was buried out where the Honeysuckle grows.

He never once talked about it.

His birthday one year I got him all I could really afford, an 8-track of Highway to Hell.

He didn’t know what to say other than “Ah… cool.”

Walt knew how much I made.

When mine came up, he gave me a Case Trapper, and my first professional toolbox.

Well, plus a case of Lone Star.

He called me his replacement son.

To my surprise, though, he left me the business, and his ’70 Chevelle, the infamous Black Bastard. Known to the cops as “that fuckin’ thing.”

He loved that car.

I loved it because it was his.

Because it was mean.

We had spent years souping it up over beers at his house.

Things got stupid when he put on the Whipple.

Burnouts on backroads, beer cans in the footwell, AC/DC in the 8-track, we’d slide the Bastard onto the highway like it was born to kill.

That was then.

Took months and mountains of red tape. Finally made it to his place.

Didn’t want to.

Knew exactly why.

Place was fucked.

Dust, mouse turds, towers of parts leaning like tombstones.

Sumbitch couldn’t throw anything out, even grief.

The Chevelle was the only thing easily accessible.

Pulled the dust cover off.

Tuxedo black. White stripes. SS package. 454.

Mean as hell.

Made me almost feel something.

Opened the door.

Highway to Hell still in the 8-track. Damn.

Crushed Lone Star cans strewn everywhere like a goddamn barfight.

Almost thought I’d see him coming down the stairs, cigarette dangling, holding a fresh case saying, “Heh, go get that fucker hot.”

Climbed in, grabbed the wheel.

Felt seventeen again. Dumb. Invincible.

Two accelerator pumps.

Click. Click. Starter.

454 caught with a roar.

Supercharger whined like a dog ready to fight.

He’d always say, “That’s it beggin’ for more Benjamins.”

Love Hungry Man bleeding out of the speakers.

Punched the pedal and put the RPM in the ketchup.

Half a shelf of his bullshit clattered to the concrete.

Cans, bottles, parts, junk, tools, signs, cigarette butts, and mice went flying.

I knew he was smiling. Or laughing.

Probably both.

Killed the engine.

Looked at the door key on the ring.

Unlocked the glove box. He always locked it.

Owner’s manual still inside.

Ha. Sentimental bastard.

Inside page, a Polaroid of Walt and a sandy-blonde-haired boy. Must have been his son, looked just like him.

Walt’s signature scribble on the back of the photo was:

Hot Rod Parts. Top right grey shelves.

Found a ladder.

Eventually.

Managed to get the box down.

Plus a few splinters.

Big, but surprisingly light.

Probably some new old stock headers.

Noticed the box was also sealed with caulk.

Funny, in the Walt way.

Old man knew they’d rust otherwise.

Crowbar.

Trusty Case pocket knife.

Two beers and cussing later.

All nails out.

Seal broken.

Cracked the lid.

I threw up instantly.

Oh there were parts, but not for the goddamn Chevelle.

There were breaks. The kind you try to forget…

And he still had sandy-blonde hair.

I buried the box past the fence line, just behind the shed where the honeysuckle grows thick.

No fanfare.

Just dirt and breath and time.

I marked it with a flat stone, the same kind Walt used for Lenora, and the same kind I used for him just a few months ago.

Just a simple epitaph: Roderick “Hot Rod” Granger.

All finally reunited.

Sunny days I still drive the Black Bastard.

My garage is still called Granger’s.

I still open at seven.