Squirrel Pie
by Jack Elliott
© Copyright
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Wheels
I come from a generation whose first burning adolescent ambition was the acquisition of a set of wheels. Plumbing the depths of the mysteries of the opposite sex was more of an obsession than an ambition. Both cost dearly in terms of time and money. But what a way to waste one’s youth.
Today youth is but a set of dim, rose-coloured, memories in my rear view mirror. With gas roaring past five bucks a gallon faster than a 55 Chevy with a 283 V8, past a flathead six Plymouth, reality of the fixed-income senior must focus on budgeting. No gas guzzling, rumbling, red rag-top in my future.
At the Bakery in Drizzle Creek, the usual crowd arrives for the morning bull…, er debate. The young punks- those under fifty- wheel up on their Harleys and assorted 4x4s. They’re the only ones with an income able to support such extravagant hobbies. The lies…, er discussion, generally runs to power, tire size, mileage, or whether the new boat should have a 100 or 150 hp outboard.
I take it all in wondering if I should invest in a new bicycle or scrounge a replacement rear wheel.
“Was that thump, you hitting the side of the building? I noticed you came across the sidewalk at full bore” inquired Pickle, as I pulled up to the table and looked longingly at his toast slathered with real butter.
I dejectedly slipped my hand in my pocket and then my day brightened as I realized I had enough change for a treat as well as caffeine.
“I’ve got some of that special private stock in from Aunt Dot,” whispered the Boss conspiratorially.
“Toasted with butter, and peanut-butter, “ she added to my enthusiastic nod.
“Yeah, I forgot about my back brakes not working. Rim’s bent,” I responded to Pickle’s question.
“Carrying too heavy a load is she?” Pickle snickered and then unable to contain his mirth slopped coffee on his lap. The hot liquid immediately sobered his demeanor. Must have hit some nerve endings.
“Well I think I can help you out. I’ve got an old spare at home. I’ll set it out. See if it works,” Pickle responded as he grimaced and soaked up the hot coffee on his pants.
I’m not sure if this was an act of charity, or whether he’s looking for consideration during the upcoming cucumber season, or if Pickle’s wife had recently delivered an ultimatum to clean out the garage. (At any rate, the wheel fit but the rear brake still doesn’t work.)
Later the hawgs rumbled away from the Bakery, and the remaining experts poured over Pickle’s new truck.
“Why she don’t have no spark plugs. She’ll never start in the winter,” opined Moose, ever the expert on all things GM.
I reluctantly mounted Old Stud and rear wheel wobbling managed to maneuver around a couple seniors without quite running them down.
It must have been the ‘special reserve’ toast. I didn’t realize my own strength as I wheeled up to my garage and bounced off the wall. I wonder if Pickle’s got a spare front wheel as well.
As to that obsession with the mysteries of the opposite sex, I haven’t figured them out either- just ask the Pearl.
