Chapter 69: Car Shopping

I stopped at a local diner to have lunch and check out the car ads. I was looking for something fairly nondescript, but with good performance and handling. You would be surprised how big that category is. We're not talking road racing machines, but if you had to run, in traffic, low end torque and horsepower were much more important than being able to do a ninety degree corner at a hundred and ten. Freeway was another story, but then, you can't lose a chopper on a long straight road either.

I had three strong possibilities, all mid 90's with low mileage. As long as they had been driven enough to keep the seals from drying out they would serve my purpose. Larger domestic cars being as hot on the market as they always were they should also be cheap. I called for directions while I was finishing lunch and hit the road.

The first one was a Buick like the one Rod had loaned me, but without the supercharged engine and other trick toys the FBI had installed. It had a significant knock in the engine and was leaking transmission fluid so I quickly moved to number two. The second car was out on the north end off of Hwy 95 where the lots were considerably larger. After being in and around the Strip for three days it was nice to be somewhere quiet for a change. I was surprised when I rolled up in front of an older, ranch style house on a half acre parcel, with desert landscaping and a very wide porch running the entire length of the house. There was a 'For Sale' sign in the front yard and an elderly black woman was rocking on the front porch. A tall boy in baggy UNLV basketball shorts was shooting baskets and listening to his I-pod in the driveway. He looked to be about my age, but he had to be six-three at least; tall and gangly, if he kept growing he was going to be a big boy. The height always seemed to come first but by the time he graduated ... The car itself was on the extreme edge of the upper limit I had set myself but the listed mileage made up for it. The thing I most wanted to avoid was paying for a car I was going to have to walk away from on short notice again. Damn, I missed my truck.

The ad was for a ninety-six Chevrolet Caprice sedan. I checked the address to verify I was in the right place, parked in front and walked up the driveway toward the house. The kid ignored me as I walked toward the house. As I hit the sidewalk the old woman got up to meet me.

"Hello," I said. "My name is David, I called and spoke to a young lady a while ago about the car in the paper." I knew this was the woman I had spoken to without even asking. Her voice hadn't really been young, but you can never go wrong referring to a woman that way. Except the early teens; Allison's fourteen and she would hurt you if you tried it on her.

She laughed, a rich and musical sound. "Young man, a lie like that is no way to say hello."

I feigned my surprise, "That was you? Get out of town."

She laughed again and I stepped in and extended my hand, "David Malcolm, nice to meet you Mrs..."

The kid hollered over from the driveway, "Grandma, what time is it?"

"Bobby! Where are your manners? Can't you see I have company?"

He glanced at me, rolled his eyes, mumbled something, and turned back to his shooting.

"Doreen Willets, you can call me Doreen. It's nice to meet you too, David. Please excuse my grandson. You know how kids are these days. The car is in the garage; let me get the key for you." She started toward the door. I stepped ahead of her and held the screen open for her.

As she crossed the threshold the boy called out, "Bring me a soda when you come back out."

She turned and yelled back, "You can't ask me better than that you can drink from the hose."

"I ain't drinkin' from no damn hose!"

"You watch your language boy! Don't you be cursin' round me; I will wash your foul mouth out with soap, so help me." She turned back to me and said softly, "Thank you, David, come on in, everything is for sale, it's not much but if you see something you like, just speak up."

"I take it you're moving?"

"I'm afraid so. My husband, Theotis, up and died on me about six months ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that; didn't he have any life insurance?"

"Oh yeah, just enough to plant his tired old bones in a hole. Two weeks later, come to find out he mortgaged my house to pay for his gambling. Thirty years to pay off this house and he went and sold it all down the devil's highway. I love that man, God rest his soul I do, but if he were here right now, I swear to Gawd I would kill him myself. Now I got to sell everything I own and move in with my daughter and that heathen son of hers."

"I'm sorry to hear that Mrs. Willets."

"Nothing for you to be sorry for, and didn't I tell you to call me Doreen?"

"Yes ma'am." I said. I had been looking around as we passed through the living room. It was spacious and neat, the hardwood floors polished to a high shine, and I doubted if a Marine drill sergeant could find dust.

"You have a lovely home Mrs. Wi ... Doreen."

"Thank you, David. Now, where are those keys? Would you like some lemonade?"

"I would love some lemonade, thank you."

The front screen opened and Bobby walked in, letting the door slam behind him, and began dribbling toward the kitchen.

"Don't you be bouncing that ball in my house!" Doreen called from the kitchen.

"It ain't yo house anymore," he yelled back, then mumbled, "old bat." But he did stop dribbling the ball. Ignoring me he went straight to the refrigerator and started looking over her shoulder. "Where the soda at?"

"Would you get off of me, please? You don't need another soda, I'm making some fresh lemonade and you can have some of that or you can have water."

He waited for her to turn away, grabbed a soda, popped the top and headed back toward the door.

"Bobby Caldwell, what did I just tell you?"

Ignoring her he headed for the door. About half way there, he started dribbling again.

"Bobby!"

He shouldered the door open and never looked back.

"I'm sorry, David. I swear, if I were thirty years younger I would put that boy over my knee and whale his behind!"

"Well, when you get ready to do it, give me a couple days notice and I'll sell out Caesar's Palace for the show."

She laughed her musical laugh again, "Oh, Lordy, wouldn't people line up to see that?"

"Yes ma'am, I think they would."

She opened a drawer and handed me a set of keys. "Here, David, you go look at that car and I'll be along shortly with the lemonade."

I took the keys and headed out the front door to the garage. Her grandson saw me coming but pretty much ignored me until I unlocked the garage and the open door interfered with his shooting. At which point he took his ball over to the porch and sat in his grandmother's rocker.

Sweet! The 'Caprice' turned out to a '96 Chevrolet Impala SS. I checked the mileage and couldn't believe it only had 24000 on it. I barely turned the key and the engine roared to life, racing for a moment before settling into a throaty rumble. The engine was a detuned version of the one they used in the Corvette the same year. It was a little dusty but there were no signs of leaks under the car. According to Wheels Omstead this was one of the most undervalued cars in recent history. It was only the second domestic vehicle in history to ever go up in value, meaning that it was valued higher as a year old used car than it was brand new. As I was closing the hood another car pulled up in front.

A younger black woman got out and opened the trunk and called, "Bobby, come help me with this."

She was struggling with something in the trunk and since young Bobby was showing no signs of moving I walked down the driveway to help her.

"Let me help you with that," I offered.

She turned, surprised at my voice and stepped back as I approached. "Why, thank you."

That turned out to be a sewing machine. It was an older model and a little heavier that I expected but it was still pretty easy to manage. "Where would you like it?" I asked.

"Anywhere in the living room is fine," she said. "May I ask who you are?"

"Oh! Sorry. David Malcolm, I'd shake your hand but ... could you get that door for me please?"

"Bobby, get the door."

Again he ignored her and she yelled, "Bobby, get off your butt and get the door, now!"

He rolled his eyes at her but he did get the door; releasing it as soon as I was past him so that it hit me in the back as I crossed the threshold.

"I'm getting a little tired of Mr. Attitude," Jamie said.

I let it go and made my way across the room and sat the sewing machine on the coffee table. Out on the porch the woman I assumed was young Bobby's mother was having words with him. He was pretty much ignoring her, passing his ball back and forth between his hands. As I was waiting for them to finish, Doreen came out of the kitchen with a tray loaded down with a big glass pitcher of lemonade and four glasses of ice.

"Let me take that for you, Doreen." I said, stepping in front of her and taking the tray.

"Thank you, David. Did you get a look at the car?"

"Yes, and I was surprised at how you had it listed, I can't see too many people paying what you're asking for a Caprice, but an Impala in that condition is worth every penny."

"If I put it in as an Impala I'd have every thug, wanna-be-gangsta in Clark County over here trying to talk me down. This way I only get serious buyers. So, are you interested?"

"Are you kidding, I'll take it."

"Oh, thank you Jesus! Regina! David is going buy Daddy's car."

"He is? Well, hallelujah! I was afraid the bank was going to come take it away! Bobby, the door."

"Get it yourself, you ain't doing nothin'," he answered.

"What did you say?" She demanded. "Young man, you better watch your mouth! Now, get out of my way." She shouldered him out of the way and opened the door for me.

Bobby stumbled backward toward the yard, dropping his ball and mumbling, "Bitch."

That was it for me. As soon as I was clear of the door I set the tray on Doreen's chair, walked into the yard and slapped him hard across the face.

"You have five seconds to apologize to your mother."

"What the fu..."

Smack! I slapped him again. "And your grandmother."

He backed away spitting blood; apparently that last slap had caused him to bite his cheek.

"Who the hell you think you are? You can't tell me..."

"Me? I'm the guy who's about to kick your sorry black ass up and down this street if you don't apologize to these two ladies right now."

I'd read in a book long ago that if you slap a woman, she'll cry. If you punch a man, he may cry or he may attack, or he may just ask you why. But if you slap a man, you better be ready because it's an insult to his manhood and he's going to come at you. I had counted on Bobby's apparent age and brash manner, pegging him as not having developed quite that level of testosterone yet. Apparently, I was right. Ever see teenage boys get into it? It generally starts as a shoving match and escalates from there. I had skipped the shoving step, not to mention I wasn't fighting like a man. Men hit with their fists. Unless they considered you too weak; that's where the whole ego thing comes in.

Young Bobby was still back at square one trying to gear up for the shoving match and apparently he had finally gotten there. He stepped forward obviously intending to shove me. Did I mention I was fighting like a girl? As he stepped forward I kicked him hard in the shin. He screamed in pain, dancing back and reaching for his injured leg, and when he did, I stepped in and slapped him again, this time catching him off balance, knocking him to the ground, and skinning the knee of the already injured leg. He didn't even try to get up, just lay there crying and clutching at his leg like it was going to fall off.

"You know, Bobby, you really disappoint me," I said. "When I got here I saw a young black man minding his own business, quietly working on his future, I saw a young man with potential! Now all I see is a stupid nigger about to get his ass kicked because he's too dumb to know when to shut up, and too damn proud to admit when he's wrong. Do you know who these two ladies behind me are? Do you? Let me tell you, these are the two people in this world who care the most about you. You think the rest of this world gives a damn about you? Hell no it doesn't! They do, they want to see you make something of yourself. Your mother wants to see you grow into a man she can be proud of. Now you've got two choices: You can stand up and apologize for being a punk ass ghetto rat, or I can keep slapping you until the black comes off? Now, what's it going to be?"

I stepped forward and raised my hand again. He cringed away, his hands immediately coming up to ward off another blow, and he mumbled something that sounded like, "Isorrymama."

"What was that?" I asked. "I don't think I caught that, say it again."

"I said I'm sorry," he repeated.

"What are you apologizing to me for, I'm the one smacking you around." I grabbed his hand and held it tight as he tried to pull it away. "Now stand up like a man, and tell your mother you're sorry." I pulled on his arm and he scrambled to his feet. I was half worried he might try to take a swing at me so I was ready for it, but he just stood and gave me a half angry, half scared to death look, then turned to face his mother.

The two women in question had been standing slack-jawed behind me since I first left the porch. Judging from the way Doreen was holding her arm, I think his mom may have started to intervene once, but Doreen had held her back.

"Stand up straight," I barked, and then continued in a softer voice, "Bobby, I understand you're angry. Just in the short time I've been here it's obvious your mother is raising you by herself. Where's your father?"

"He left."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I said. "I know you miss your dad, and that part of you blames your mom for him leaving because you think she must have done something to drive him away. Bobby, I don't care what problems your parents had, the important thing to remember is that she's the one who loved you enough to stay and take care of you. She's the one who works and puts food on the table. She's the one who worries about you every time you step out that door, whether it's to go to school or just hanging out with your friends. I'm not saying this to talk down on your father. But the fact is you need to give your mom a little more credit for taking on the job of raising you. You need to show a little more appreciation and the simplest way to do that is treat her with exactly the kind of respect that you want others to show you. What I just did to you physically is exactly what you've been doing to her verbally, ever since she got here. Cut her some slack, Bobby. A boy like you is going to be a handful for any woman to raise, especially alone."

As I was speaking more tears had started flowing down his face. Not from the pain in his leg or stinging of his cheek, but from the painful truth I was telling him.

"Momma," he said, choking on the word. "Momma, I'm sorry."

Doreen released her grip on her daughter's arm and Regina rushed to hug her son. Hugging him and pulling his head down where he could hug her back and cry on her shoulder. From that position he saw his grandmother with tears running down her cheeks as well and he tried to pull away but Regina was having none of that, so instead he just held out his long arm toward her and said, "Gramma, I'm sorry I sassed you and..." His words were cut off as Doreen joined the pile. I stepped back onto the porch and poured lemonade into the glasses, then took the small pile of napkins Doreen had brought out and started handing them out.

Doreen took off her glasses and started dabbing at her eyes. "Oh my, David, you are just a wonder. Come here, she moved forward and almost crushed me in a hug. Thank you."

"Yes, thank you," Regina said. "Thank you for giving me my baby back."

"I didn't give him back, he was always there. I just woke him up."

"But how did you know... ?"

"You might say I'm a student of human nature. In the absence of a strong role model, the male looks to the culture for guidance. I don't mean to sound prejudiced but popular black culture is a pretty sorry example. I say popular black culture because I've met enough real black men in my life to know the difference. Bobby wants what all kids want. From the time we are born we are looking for boundaries, and when we find them, we push on them, test them to see if their real. A big part of a father's job is to draw boundaries for his kids, to make sure they know there are limits and to enforce those limits so that the child knows that they are real. Being a single parent, especially a single mother, it's difficult to enforce that all the time. Without the help and support from a strong partner, kids will test and push and look for weakness constantly, and I mean constantly, relentlessly, and if they find a weakness they push even harder to see if they can exploit it. You're his mom; you're the nurturer by design. You just can't be that tough all the time; you're not wired that way. The worst thing I think a parent can do is back down when a child pushes. It lessens you in their eyes, they lose respect for you and once that starts, it snowballs quickly.

"Does that sound right to you, Bobby?" I asked.

"How do I know, I'm sixteen?" he asked. While I had been talking he had pulled out of his mom's bear hug and was just standing, rubbing his face. "Damn, how many sisters you got? You don't learn to slap like that 'less you got sisters you can't hit back."

"If you only knew" I thought. "Just be glad my sister wasn't here, she would have hurt you."

"Damn straight," Jamie said with a laugh.

"And watch your language in front of the ladies," I added. "How long has your dad been gone?"

"He left me two years ago," Regina said. "He said..."

I held up my hand to cut her off. "It doesn't matter what he said, that's between you and him. Does he still live around here?"

"No," she said. "Or if he does no one knows where."

I turned back to Bobby, "You were angry at your dad for leaving but he's not here so you take it out on your mom. That's not fair. You're lucky she didn't do the same to you. You need someone to talk to? About the things you can't talk to your mom about?" The suddenly panicked look in his eyes made me laugh. "No, I don't mean me. It would be best if it was someone you knew, but if you don't have someone, I can make a few calls, and if nothing else I can arrange for you to talk to some of those men I was talking about. But you have to stop listening to whoever it is you've been listening to. That's just others pushing their anger and misery off on you, and you have enough of your own." I looked at his face for a moment and turned to his grandmother.