When we last left Carl and Emma, they had just traveled the back roads of Mississippi in a vain search for Elvis. We join them now as they wander (what else?) north, in the general direction of Canada. Carl rolled the window of The Whale down and aimed his lips at a roadside speed sign coming up. He carefully allowed for the wind, then launched a thick wad of brown tobacco juice right between the pair of fives. The wad hit with a metallic slapping sound … Pa-tang! ... and the metal quivered on its post. "Not bad," said Carl. "A little bit to the left, but the distance was good. I'd give it a 9.5 on degree of difficulty and a 9.7 on style. Should be good for a gold medal, at least." Emma shuddered. "You know, Carl, it's bad enough that you chew that stuff all the time, but when you spit it like that, it makes me get queasy. How would you like it if I started tossing my lunch at roadside signs?" Carl brightened. "Hey, great idea! I'll slow down and you can give it a few practice shots, just to get the feel of it. And if you get good, we can have some sort of competition. Of course, I'll have to spot you something... figure out some kind of handicap system. Whaddaya think?" "I think that your mental pilot light has blown out. You're rowing a boat with one oar. Your deck is short about 15 cards from a full deck. Somebody safety-wired your brain in backwards. There must be a tight knot in your shorts." With that, Emma crossed her arms and leaned back, smiling smugly. Carl looked confused. "So why don't you quit sugar-coating it, honey pot, and tell me what you really mean?" Emma started to respond, but thought better of it and simply bit her lips shut and started knitting. Meanwhile, The Whale droned northward on Highway 55 in the general direction of St. Louis, at exactly 2 1/2 miles per hour over the speed limit. *** The Missouri Ozarks are truly beautiful in the fall, and this prompted Carl to peel off Interstate 55 and head west, into the very heart of those deep forests. Carl drove toward Pacific, a place with a warm spot in his crusty old heart. He pulled The Whale into a crusty looking gas station and a scruffy-looking attendant shuffled out "Full service only, bud. Buck fifty-three a gallon. Take it or leave it." "Well, in that case you smooth talkin' devil, just give me five bucks worth and check the oil and water. By the way, there usta be a place around here called Pacific Motorcycle Park. I rode there back in the late 60s. Had me a 650 Triumph with real knobbies on the back." The attendant wiped his nose on his sleeve. "That place has been gone for years. Five bucks worth, you say? Big spender, huh?" "Well, at $1.53 a gallon, I don't think I wanna fill up nearly 80 gallons worth of empty tanks. Just check under the hood and I'll be on my way." The attendant grunted and went about his business while Carl hit the rest room, which looked about four times worse than he had expected. He held his breath and tried not to touch anything while going about his business. When Carl got back to The Whale, Emma hopped out. "I'll be back in a minute, dear. I have to use the powder room." The attendant looked up from under the hood. "I wouldn't do that, lady. The women's room is a bit messed up. Use the men's room instead. I just tidied it up the other day." A bizarre thought darted through Carl's mind, as to what the men's room looked like BEFORE it was tidied up! The attendant put the dipstick back in. "Oil's OK, but it looks like you got a problem here, buddy. Take a peek." Carl peered where the grubby index finger was pointing. Whoa! The alternator belt was hanging on by the proverbial thread. Carl let out a whistle. "Hokie smokes! Good thing you spotted that. Got a spare belt in stock?" The attendant wiped his nose on the sleeve again. "Probbly. Bring 'er around back and I'll take a looksee." Emma came back from the men's room looking a bit green around the gills. "Good Lord, Carl! Did you see that place in there? It was too filthy for flies to land. I don't think I'm going to be able to eat for a week." Carl fired up The Whale and gingerly drove around to the back of the station. The attendant came out with a new belt. "Last one in stock. Don't get much call for big block Chevy parts around here. It'll cost you sixty bucks, plus $20 for installation." "What!" Carl exploded. "I don't want to buy your whole station... just a belt." "Hey, if ya don't want the belt, buddy, just say so. I'll put her back on the shelf. This is Sunday and just about everything else around here is closed. Good luck." You could almost see the steam coming out of Carl's ears. "OK, I'll buy the belt, but I'll install the belt myself." The attendant snuffled his nose into the sleeve once again. "Can't do that. Insurance and all that. You want it, I install it. You don't want it, see you around." Carl forced himself to calm down. "OK. Go ahead and do it. Me and the missus will be across the street at the burger stand." *** Twenty minutes later, Carl and Emma walked back to the station. The attendant was standing there, shaking his head. "Bad news. Looks like you got a real bad oil leak here. Take a squint where those two lines are runnin' to that fancy filter you got? See there? Yup. You got a leaker... maybe two. I can't tell, because there's so much oil on the fittings and the lines. You want me to check it out, it'll cost you a flat $75. Or you can just head on down the road and hope that the lines don't pop and turn your big inch, big bucks motor into a doorstop. It don't make no never-mind to me." Reluctantly, Carl gave the attendant the OK and headed across the street to the burger stand again. An hour later, they walked back to the station. "Got 'er fixed up. Both end fittings were cracked. Lucky for you I had some decent used ones in my tool box. Cost you twenny bucks per." Carl's jaw was so tightly clenched Emma thought his teeth were going to explode. Emma stepped in, smiled, and spoke quietly: "That's fine, young man. I'll pay for this repair. Just write us up a receipt and we'll be on our way." The attendant wiped his eternally runny nose on the other sleeve, leaving a large smear that greatly resembled snail tracks. "Before you get ready to hit the road, there's one more thing you ought to take a look at. There's a puddle of gas under that big old carb you got there. My wild guess is that you got a stuck float, or a leaky float bowl... somethin' like that. Either way, if that gas slops on those fancy headers of yours, the whole mess could go up in flames. I can check it out for you, but..." Carl sighed. "How much?" "Hunnert bucks, including gaskets. Lucky for you, I got a good selection of Holley double-pumper gaskets and such. Take it or leave it." Carl looked stunned. "Look, I got two questions: How long is this gonna take and where can I get a cold beer around here?" The attendant blew his nose on his sleeve, snuffled, and said, "Jist walk a block or so down the same street the burger place is on. Same side, too. It's called the Dew Drop Inn." Carl sneered. "How original." The attendant yawned and snuffled. "Thanks. Thought the name up myself." *** Carl drank three quick beers, ate eleven pickled eggs and a half-dozen Slim Jim sausages, then calmed down. The bartender ambled up. "Hey, pal. You ought to pace yourself. Them pickled eggs will make you hate yourself in the morning." Carl downed egg number 12. "Maybe you're right. But I need something to take my mind off of my mechanical problems. My truck has been in that damned station over there for near a half-day. It's one thing after another. Makes me wonder why I ever retired from the Navy." The barkeep smiled. "You an ex-Navy man?" "Yup. 28 years, six months, two weeks, three days, nine hours, 17 minutes, 46 seconds. Chief Petty Officer." "Well, put it there, Chief. I was in for 20 years. Came out as a Second Class Bosun's Mate. Got busted quite a few times, but I was a Chief twice. Spent some time on the Forrestal." "Yeh? Me too! Well, put 'er there, pal." The bartender leaned forward in a conspiratorial fashion, and spoke quietly. "Listen, Chief. The guy who's workin' on your truck? Well, he's the guy who owns the station." "What? You mean that runny-nosed little guy owns a gas station?" "Yup. And he owns the burger stand across the street, and this bar, and the motel over there, and the junk yard at the end of town and the parts store and just about everything else around here. The guy is worth millions, maybe zillions. He makes his money by screwin' up your vehicle when you pull in for gas." "What?" "That's right. Did you notice that he offers full-service only? That's so he can get under your hood. Did he find a bad belt when he checked your oil?" "Uhhh... yes." "See, he keeps a razor blade in his pocket and just slashes the belt while he's checking the oil or the ATF. Then you gotta buy his "last belt in stock," right?" "Right." "And then he found a bunch of oil dripping from somewhere, right?" "Right." "Well, He keeps a little squirt bottle up his sleeve. The sleeve he's always wiping his nose on. His points it at a critical area, gives it a squuuooosh-squuuoosh or two, and you got a serious oil leak. Right?" "Right." "Betcha he hit you up with the biggie next; the old leaking gas deal. He pours a couple ounces of gas under your carb, and you freak out. You figure your whole truck is gonna catch on fire, and you're happy to pay whatever it takes to keep from turning into a crispy critter at 55 mph. Right?" "Right." "So guess what's next?" "I'm afraid to ask. But I will. What's next?" "Well, you'll go back and he'll have squirted some trans fluid on your inspection plate, and tell you your trans seal is leaking. This will take two days to fix, so you'll have to stay at his motel while he "fixes" it, and you'll be eating at his burger place and drinking beer here. That's his racket, in a nutshell. Got it?" "Right." "All right! Now go bust his chops, Chief." *** Carl wandered (what else?) over to the garage, and walked up to the attendant. "Howsit going? Makin' any progress?" The attendant wiped his nose on his sleeve, leaving a long, stringy track on the fabric that was once a dark blue, and smiled: "Well, I got the carb all rebuilt just fine. Lucky for you I had them Holley gaskets, ya know. But guess what...?" Carl interrupted. "Let me guess. You found a trans leak around my inspection plate, right?" "Uhh, yes. How'd you know that?" Carl whipped out his fishing license and jammed it into the attendants face. "See this, pal? Well, I'm from the Department of 4x4 Investigative Abuses, and I'm afraid that you're gonna do 80 years in the Big Rock Pile." The attendant blanched pure white. "Uhhh, can't we work this out. I mean, how about a few hundred bucks that you can give to your favorite charity. Here!" Carl took the money, stuffed it into his pocket, and said, "I'm filing this as evidence. This is bribery, and could cost you an additional 25 years, scumbag. Now look, I'm going to take this bribe money and deliver it to the local police office. You wait right here and don't move. Not an inch. Is that clear?" "Right." Carl and Emma got into The Whale and headed down the road. Emma, eyes wide, wailed, "Oh, Carl, where is the police place? We've got to find it, quick. Carl smiled. "Says who? I've got two crisp hundred dollar bills, five dollars worth of free gas, and a gas station crook running for his life before the police show up. All things considered, not a bad pit stop. Right?" "Right!" | 
