Florida, 1979
Life’s a Beach and then You Die
PART TWELVE
Marv’s Chevron has two dirt-floor repair stalls, one of which contains a faded, tan ‘69 Chevy Impala with a small dent on the driver’s door. On the right side of the building is an office painted dull yellow with greasy finger smears on the walls and a cloudy window facing the road.
The flat, metal desktop is littered with dirty scraps of paper, nuts, bolts, pens and assorted pieces of wrapped candy. A turned-over hubcap in the middle of the desk is piled high with cigarette butts. A dark green wastebasket, half full of candy wrappers, cigarette packs and empty tins of Copenhagen, sits next to a tarnished spittoon with vile-looking stains congealing on the edges. A wooden, wheeled chair contains Marvin, the station owner, as he peers over the repair bill.
I say hello and sit down at the side of the desk on a chromium-framed kitchen chair with a cracked, red plastic seat. I’m praying Marvin won’t call in the number on the credit card I’m handing him. He squints at the card and then at me, tosses the card on the desk and returns his attention to the bill.
I lean over and try to decipher the scribbles: Timing chain, timing gear, shop supplies and labor. The easiest thing to read is the total: $177. 34.
The mechanic stands outside the office in smeared gray coveralls and an oily, black skullcap, trying his damnedest to explain to Dorie—in a mostly incomprehensible mix of Scandinavian-flavored, Southern-white-trash English—what he has done to the Chevy. She’s slightly inside the office door, staring up at his grease-smeared stubble, acting like she understands.
Marvin rummages around in the side drawer, looking for something. My prayers are answered when he happily lifts out his credit card imprinter and a clean receipt.
“I gotta charge you fifteen bucks extra for using the credit card,” he says gruffly. “It costs me money every time I get one of the goddamn things. S’posed to be ten percent, but I’m cuttin’ ya some slack on a count of the two of ya make such a fine couple.”
“Thanks,” I say, growing ever more restless and uneasy, cold sweat beginning to trickle down the back of my neck. “I understand, the big oil companies are always screwing you over.”
His eyes get narrow. He tilts his head sideways, shrugs his shoulders and launches a brown stream in the direction of the spittoon. The goober hits the edge with a slippery clank and drips down into the soup. Marvin seems pleased. He writes up the charges on the slip and slides the knob across the plastic. He grins and pushes everything over to me, along with a cracked, and of course, greasy, ballpoint pen.
“There you go, Elton,” he says. “You’re all set.”
Dude didn’t know how right he was.
“Now we’ve got plenty of time to enjoy the sights before it gets dark, honey,” Dorie says, as my nose starts to run.
I sniff in and sign the slip. Marvin slides over a set of keys on a ring with a small, yellow rectangular card fastened to it. I take the keys and hand them to Dorie but she holds her hands up and shakes her head to the negative.
“You drive the Chevy, honey. So you can test out how it’s running,” looking at me with big, wide eyes. “I’ll follow you in the bus. Maybe we can find a motel on the beach somewhere.”
“I’m sure these guys fixed it quite well, Dorie. I’m sure it will be fine. I should drive the van and follow you.”
“Oh come on Ke—Elton. Please let me drive the camper. Please, please… can I please?”
Marvin smirks up at me. The mechanic says, “She be a-runnin’ real goo-ed. Y’all’ll see-ah.”
I give up any thought of resistance and squeeze the Chevy keys in my palm. Dorie wiggles and giggles out of the office. I follow closely behind, waving, thanking Marvin and trying not to stimulate any more conversation. It feels like the devil is in my chest.
Dorie heads for the VW. I walk alongside her, smiling. We get to the bus and she climbs in the driver’s side like there’s no question about it.
I have to admit; she has me. I can’t throw a big fuss at the gas station and besides that, she still has the gun in her purse.
(To be continued)
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