Deadbeat

Sprawled under an old beige pickup, Sonny felt the rumble of a 454 big block engine as it pulled into the shop. He twisted the oil cap back in place then rolled out from under the truck. “What’s kicking up all the fuss, Phil?”

Phil, the proprietor of Phil’s Garage, heard Sonny’s question, but wasn’t sure how to respond. Phil walked around a faded red car with a dingy, once-white roof. “Looks like a Chevy of some sort. Model name fell off though and I don’t for the life of me remember what…”

Sonny stood up and saw the car for himself. “Laguna, Phil. It’s a Chevy Laguna. Seventy-eight or so from the looks of it,” Sonny said. When he placed his hand on the hood, he felt like his fingers might melt right into the metal. Sweat poured from beneath his Reds ball cap. He took notice of Sheriff Newton stepping out from the driver’s side, snapping him out of the haze.

“Sonny? You orta sit down, hoss - you’re white as a bleached sheet,” Sheriff Newton stated.

“Where’d you come across this car, Sheriff?” he asked, still staring intently at the hood.

“Well, this old gal was abandoned close to Exit 41 about a year ago - been sitting at the impound ever since. I scooped it up at the auction this morning on the cheap.”

Newton walked around Phil and Sonny to open the passenger door. “Y’all ever seen a Laguna? Damn thing has swiveling bucket seats! How about that, boys? I’ll be riding in the lap of luxury, once you all get her up to snuff,” Newton proudly declared.

“Yeah, I’ve seen one before,” Sonny mumbled while avoiding eye contact. “I’m gonna take an early lunch, Phil.”

“Sure, kid, see you in thirty. Don’t fart around though, we got two more cars to finish before quitting time.”

Sonny stepped out into the sunlight, now fully soaked with sweat. He looked across the street at the diner, then back at the Laguna. Rather than walking over for his usual blue plate, he instead turned and said, “Sheriff, how much would you take for the Laguna?”

“I just bought the damned thing,” Newton grumbled. “Why would I sell it, I haven’t even fired it up on the quarter-mile yet?”

“It ain’t fit to drag and you know it. How much?” Sonny reiterated. “From the looks of the body, you’ll be into that car for a lot more than you realize, especially if you want it race-ready. Mrs. Newton will tan your ass once she realizes how much gas that engine guzzles.”

Newton looked at the car, then at Sonny. His gears were turning, fixating on what he’d tell his wife about his latest impulse purchase. Hell, she was still mad about the boat. “How much you give me for it?” he finally replied.

“I asked you first. What’d you give for the damned thing?” Sonny fired back.

“I ain’t telling you shit, Sonny. Make your offer or go about your business.”

“Now fellas…” Phil interjected, attempting to cool the room, but Sonny waved him off.

Sonny leaned on the trunk of the Laguna, then said, “I’ll give you three-hundred for it. And you’d be damn lucky to get that much outta this shit-heap.”

“Five-hundred,” Newton shot back, even though he only paid a single Franklin for it.

“No way in hell. Three, or I walk.”

Newton thought about Sandy yelling at him for adding more junk to their yard. He hung his head and relented. “You’re a stubborn coot, you know that?” Sonny nodded. “Fine,” Newton said, “That three-hundred - you got it on you?”

Sonny pulled two hundreds and five twenties out of his wallet, then handed it over. In turn, the Sheriff handed him the key.

“Phil, I’m gonna take the rest of the day off.”

“What about the other cars? I can’t do it all myself,” Phil whined.

“I guess they’ll still be here tomorrow, won’t they? I’ll see you then.” With that, Sonny sat down behind the wheel of the Laguna, pulled slowly out of the garage, then peeled out down the road. The Sheriff and Phil traded tired glances and went about their days.

Sonny watched the speedometer needle tick around the dial as he sped home. After no more than three miles, he had already made a list of ten or so repairs the car would need - not that it mattered. He pulled the Laguna into the driveway and drove through the grass into his back yard. He stepped out of the car then retrieved an aluminum baseball bat that sat just inside his back door. He regarded the Laguna one last time in its current, disheveled state, then proceeded to bash in the hood with a swing of the bat.

With each strike, Sonny ran through a memory. There were the arguments between his mom and dad that surfaced first. Once the hood had fully buckled, he took the bat to both headlights. As glass shattered, the distant nature of his father washed over him. There were never any hugs and very little conversation between the two of them. It was as if Sonny was a walking blind spot to the man.

Sonny hadn’t thought of Larry Smith in maybe ten or twelve years, but when he laid eyes on the Laguna that morning, he knew he had been right. With the chrome bumper mangled beneath his Louisville Slugger, Sonny moved on to the windows, starting with the windshield. As it fractured into a spiderweb of cracks, the darkest memory returned.

He was just nine years old, sitting in the back of his mom’s white Impala, driving down Caneyville Road. There was a cassette tape of Motown Hits playing, either the Temptations or the Four Tops. Young Sonny stared out the window, tracing raindrops with his fingers. In the opposite lane, he saw a red Chevy with a white rag-top roll past. With absolute certainty, Sonny saw that his father was driving a ‘78 Laguna. He shouted for his mom to turn around - that his dad had just driven by. Of course, she didn’t believe him. They argued about it for days, weeks even. Sonny knew what he saw, but no one believed him. Larry Smith had been presumed dead for six months at that point. And yet, that day on the road, Sonny locked eyes with his father. Larry had been driving the same car that Sonny was now demolishing.

He continued the assault, moving on to the quarter panel on the passenger side. Sonny remembered all the doubts that crippled his mind as a teenager. He long wrestled with the belief that his dad had faked his death to escape him and his mother. No one believed him, of course. The rear tail lights exploded with a strike, as did the years between the present and his past.

Larry Smith supposedly fell into the Green River and drowned. The rumor was that he and Charlie Roundtree went to the dam to do a little fishing and a lot of drinking. After getting properly sauced, Roundtree claimed that Larry fell off the side of the dam and into the water. Charlie couldn’t swim, so that was that. The search for Larry Smith’s body went on for over a week, but nothing turned up. There was an empty casket at the funeral. No one but Sonny and his mom attended, even Charlie didn’t show up. Larry was a ghost among the living long before his untimely death.

Sonny swung the bat until his bones rattled and his arms gave out. There was hardly anything left of the Chevy. Debris littered Sonny’s backyard. When the destruction suited him, Sonny went back inside and collapsed on his couch.

Sonny didn’t possess a single photo of his father, but he hadn’t forgotten his face - he saw a version of it in the mirror. Larry may be older, but Sonny would know him when he saw him. He wondered if he could be arrested for killing a man that was already dead.

When he woke from the nightmare, both of Sonny’s hands were squeezing the feathers out of his pillow. With great effort, he caught his breath and relented. He’d had three nightmares in the past week, each worse than the last. This time, Sonny was walking the trail at Carson Park when a shadowy figure fell from a tree, practically on top of him. There was a brief struggle, but Sonny pinned the assailant to the ground. Color replaced darkness, revealing his father’s face. As Sonny strangled the shadow’s neck, the color drained away. Soon after, Sonny woke up murdering a pillow in place of his deadbeat dad.

Angry, Sonny grabbed his aluminum bat and returned to what was left of the Laguna. In nothing but his boxers, he beat on the remains of the trunk until the madness left him. He slumped ass-first into the morning dew and took long, ragged breaths. It was close to six by now; he figured Sheriff Newton was at the station or would be soon.