This is not my story. But it was told to me by an old man who lived it.
The year is 1987. Rural Alabama. Our main character is a young kid. He’s at a remote gas station. He tries to start his car, but it’s a no go. The car is deader than disco.
So he’s sitting on the hood of his ‘73 Piece Of Junkola when an old guy at the next pump notices there’s something odd about this kid.
Namely, the kid is wearing a tux.
The old guy is wearing a cowboy hat. There is a horse trailer attached to his Ford. There are horses in the trailer, on their way to a rodeo.
The old guy is in a hurry. He has to be in Missouri by tomorrow, or else they’ll dock his pay. He knows he should leave the gas station now, without asking questions. Because questions lead to “things,” and the old man doesn’t have time for extra “things.”
But, as I say, the kid is in a tux.
So the old guy asks a question.
“Car trouble?”
The
kid tells him yes, and he says he knows it’s the alternator. He had planned on getting it fixed, but he didn’t have the money. So he has been driving his Crap Mobile around town. But tonight was, evidently, the night the car went to be with Jesus.
“Why are you in a tux?” the old guy asks.
“Because I’m the best man.”
“Best at what?”
“It's a wedding. My brother’s getting married.”
The kid looks like he is about to cry.
The sun is setting. The Alabama countryside never looked so green. In the air, the smell of horse turds.
“Where’s the church?” the man asks.
“Mobile.”
“MOBILE?!” The man laughs.
The kid buries his face in his hands.
“Do you have anyone you can call? Anyone who will give you a ride that…