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Tow Trucks and
Snugglers and Snuff, Oh My!
by Elizabeth Bussey Sowdal
Part
II
Part
III: Snake-Eyes and the GTO |
You saw us last, the children and I, stranded on the side of a two lane county
road in eastern Tennessee which seemed to be deserted except for us and some oily
haired, snake-eyed guy who’s daddy might have picked up a couple of days work
as an extra in "Deliverance." Just us and the grasshoppers, but they’re never
any help. Loaded down with children and nervous as the proverbial cat, I walked
through that August sunshine, which was just as flat white and white-hot in eastern
Tennessee that day as it is in Oklahoma in August. We trooped toward the little
store and a telephone (I hoped) and Orange Crush (I promised). Mr. Snuggler cruised
on past us, his evil-mobile rumbling ominously for lack of a muffler, and I breathed
a sigh of relief. I didn’t plague myself with the thought that I had judged Mr.
Dude too hastily, because sometimes you just know about a person with a single
glance and my glimpse of him told me all I ever needed to know about him. None
of it good, but all of it important.
We got inside the store safely. There
was air conditioning and Orange Crush and a telephone. Who else could I call that
might be able to help but Mrs. B., not too far away in Virginia? Wait there, she
advised, she was going to see if her mechanic could drive out and help us. Sit
tight, be patient, stay safe.
Which was good advice, of course. The very
soundness of this advice made it impossible for me to follow, being who I was
and in the state that I was in. I am not referring to the beautiful state of Tennessee,
but rather my state – Stupid and Crazy. Not so beautiful. Besides, there was the
Cabbage Patch Kid to think of. Hadn’t we promised her we would be back in a very
short time? And weren’t all our diapers and suitcases and everything that we owned
in that car? Besides, Snake-Eyes had passed us by and everything was going to
be okay for the second time in two days. Back we trooped through the sunshine
to our car.
We were almost there and getting closer. Poor Tootie’s little
girl legs were getting tired and we were all hot and our Orange Crush had worn
off. But there was the car, not too far away, and Mrs. B.’s mechanic was headed
to the rescue. At first I thought my ears were pounding with the heat and the
exertion, but I soon realized that I was hearing an unmufflered and not very well
tuned 1972 GTO. "Come on Babies, let’s see how quick we can get to the car." Not
so quick, it seemed. You can only expect little five year old legs to go so fast.
Piggyback time. Up you go, and hold on tight, isn’t this fun? The air around us
pulsed as the GTO and it’s malignant driver got closer, not gunning it you know,
as he might have if he wanted to harass us, but kind of lurking back there, panting
like a mangy hyena.
Here’s the car, where are the keys? Here’s the key,
where is the lock? Here’s the lock, one, two, three, four and we’re in and the
door is closed and the door is locked and GTO Man has pulled up beside us with
his arm resting on the window frame and his chin resting on his arm, looking at
us as if he could pop his jaw out of joint and swallow us up whole like a handful
of baby mice. Zero sweat. Looking at us that cold, and that sure and that hungry.
Looking at us so intently that he did not notice the highway patrol car which
had pulled up almost nose to nose with the primered and Pennzoiled pride of the
South, until the highway patrolman whooped his siren.
Ask me what an angel’s
voice sounds like if you want, because I can tell you with some assurance that
it sounds just like the whoop of a siren. Scraggly Man hadn’t idled up behind
us because his car couldn’t go any faster. I know this because that car of his
went considerably faster as he pulled out around the highway patrol car, burned
rubber, and gunned it down the road, away, away, probably all the way back to
Hell. I know what an angel sounded like one hot afternoon in Tennessee and I know
that the Devil sometimes drives a GTO.
Things got better after that. Strange
and surreal, certainly, but also better.
Part
IV: Snuff’s Enough next page |
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