We are No Longer the Smart Kids in Class by David Huebert

Author:David Huebert [Huebert, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781550719581
Publisher: Guernica Editions Inc
Published: 2015-07-23T00:00:00+00:00

elegy for a buick century

January on the Crowsnest,

half an hour east of Salmo.

The sun was bright, the road crisp

as we headed up Kootenay Pass.

The Buick had a few problems:

warped rotors, bent axles,

worn callipers, chunky transmission,

and a whining catalytic convertor.

But we figured she’d make the drive.

Natasha stroked my cheek

and I held her thigh as we sang

Motown songs and climbed.

Around noon the sun darted off,

leaving a thick grey ceiling above the white carpet

of the road. I had to brake around every corner,

suck deep breaths to keep my stomach down.

A tight switchback and we found

a line of brake lights glowing through the gloom.

Later we’d learn an avalanche

had smeared the road, traffic was stalled

while the highway crew cleared the debris.

I stepped on the brakes and as the tire-rumble

quieted I thought I heard something,

turned the music down and there it was,

a hectic popcorn rattle beneath the hood.

Soon smoke was pumping out of the engine,

thick, black, and violent.

I jumped out, lifted the hood,

saw the bubbling coolant —

fluorescent green,

churning at a steady boil.

Before I could start feeling sorry for myself

two men approached,

all smiles and plaid and thick leather gloves.

One was sixty with salt-and-pepper handlebars,

the other was thirty-something

with mutton chops and pale blue eyes.

They leaned into the engine.

“Where ya comin’ from?”

“Where ya to?”

“How’s the rad?”

“Temp gauge working?”

They fired off questions, prodding

the engine’s intimates.

I watched, hunched against the cold,

answered what I could.

“They seem nice,” Natasha said, burrowing into me.

We huddled together as the snow melted into our shoes,

watched Handlebar wrap his sweater

over his hand and feel around the radiator.

There was a hiss, a smell of burning plastic.

“Yep,” he said, peering in and squeezing.

“She’s hurtin’. Got any water?”

Between the coolant in my trunk

and the water in their Ford

they managed to stabilize the radiator.

We changed socks, put the seats back,

and leaned into one another,

passing the time with cold coffee

and peanut butter sandwiches.

Two hours later the line of pink smudges

lit up again. I was stunned when the Buick

turned over without a fuss.

Handlebar and Mutton Chops

looked under the hood.

“Buy yourself a lottery ticket,” Handlebar said.

Mutton Chops grinned. “Drive ’er like you stole ’er.”

We stayed close behind the Ford as we crept down the mountain.

Soon the slope levelled out, the sun broke through,

and a scalp of concrete gleamed through the ruts in the snow.

Handlebar waved as he stepped on the gas

and the Ford peeled away,

leaving us behind in the sun-soaked valley.

And the car? she made the drive —

past Creston, down to Fernie,

all the way to Calgary, and back.

In the end I sold her for three hundred bucks.

I heard the final stroke was a blown gasket

on a logging road near Smithers.

I figure if Handlebar and Mutton Chops had been there,

she would’ve made that drive too.

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