go for a ride.”
I cleaned my plate and swallowed my coffee which was so
strong that it gave me a jolt of caffeine and a few coffee grounds at the
bottom of my cup. I rinsed them in the sink and grabbed my jacket, walking out
to look at the car.
The ‘Cuda in the light of day was in sad shape. Not
irreparable by any stretch of the imagination, but she needed bodywork and a
paint job. Paint. It was time to make a change. I pulled a dog-eared notepad
from my pocket and made a list with a pencil stub.
Wallace tapped the horn twice, and I hurried along. I
finished my list and jogged out to his truck. It was a pristine Ford F-350 in
royal red. I jumped up into the cab and without a word, we took off.
We shopped that day, only talking when we needed to. The
first stop was the junkyard, and I found the replacement quarter panel and door
that I needed. The next stop was an auto supply store.
“Do you have a paint booth in your place?” I asked.
Wallace looked at me like I was from Neptune.
“Does a duck quack?”
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
I bought Black Velvet paint, as well as masks and paint
suits. The ‘Cuda was about to go dark.
The next stop was to accommodate my less than pristine
wardrobe selection. I grabbed shirts and pants and necessities, as well as
workout clothes and shaving equipment. I dropped everything into a duffle bag.
Wallace paid in cash as he did at every stop from a bank envelope separate from
his own pocket.
Our last stop before returning to the garage was to buy me a
suit. I didn’t have time for custom tailoring, but they did it anyway. The suit
was simple and dark. Ellis would have been proud.
We returned to the garage after a short stop at a sandwich
shop. Wallace vowed not to cook more than one meal a day for me. I thanked him
nonetheless.
“Do you mind if I work out first,” I asked. “It’s been a
while and I could use the exercise.”
Wallace shook his head and tossed my sandwich in the fridge.
“You want to work on the car after lunch?” he asked.
“Sounds great.”
I took my clothes purchases upstairs and changed into some
sweatpants, t-shirt, and jogging shoes. I came down the stairs and took off
running. I didn’t have a destination, just a time in my head. I counted the
blocks and lengthened my stride to eat through them faster. My body still ached
from the jail beating, but I knew that a workout had a way of focusing my mind,
putting me back on track.
I ran three miles in just over twenty minutes, looping my
way back to the garage. Once there, I found the overhead door open, so I jogged
inside and went straight to crunches. Again and again I hit each repetition,
then I rolled back into leg raises until my stomach was on fire. I rolled over
and started into pushups, until I felt the muscles screaming in my chest. I
switched to one handed pushups and hit five before switching. In the moment, I
had forgotten about my recently dislocated shoulder, so the pain jarred me back
to reality.
I switched into shadow boxing, jabbing, circling, footwork,
then combinations, then into a seamless blend of a mixed bag of fighting styles
I picked up over the years. Krav Maga that I learned from an Israeli friend out
East. Savate that I picked up from a Frenchman in Quebec. Muay Thai that I
learned from an immigrant merchant who I paid to teach me, so he could afford
to bring his family over to the States.
At last, I stopped, breathing hard and covered in sweat. I
realized that Wallace was watching me.
“Are we going to work on the car now?” he asked.
I nodded, too winded to answer.
“Good.”
He tossed me a water bottle and I caught it, but nearly lost
my balance. Wallace had the kindness to walk out of the room before he started
to laugh at me.
We worked on the car the rest of the day. I grabbed bites to
eat while I could. I finished my sandwich, drank my water bottle and grabbed
another. I was ready to work then and gave myself over to it.
We replaced the door and the
I cleaned my plate and swallowed my coffee which was so
strong that it gave me a jolt of caffeine and a few coffee grounds at the
bottom of my cup. I rinsed them in the sink and grabbed my jacket, walking out
to look at the car.
The ‘Cuda in the light of day was in sad shape. Not
irreparable by any stretch of the imagination, but she needed bodywork and a
paint job. Paint. It was time to make a change. I pulled a dog-eared notepad
from my pocket and made a list with a pencil stub.
Wallace tapped the horn twice, and I hurried along. I
finished my list and jogged out to his truck. It was a pristine Ford F-350 in
royal red. I jumped up into the cab and without a word, we took off.
We shopped that day, only talking when we needed to. The
first stop was the junkyard, and I found the replacement quarter panel and door
that I needed. The next stop was an auto supply store.
“Do you have a paint booth in your place?” I asked.
Wallace looked at me like I was from Neptune.
“Does a duck quack?”
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
I bought Black Velvet paint, as well as masks and paint
suits. The ‘Cuda was about to go dark.
The next stop was to accommodate my less than pristine
wardrobe selection. I grabbed shirts and pants and necessities, as well as
workout clothes and shaving equipment. I dropped everything into a duffle bag.
Wallace paid in cash as he did at every stop from a bank envelope separate from
his own pocket.
Our last stop before returning to the garage was to buy me a
suit. I didn’t have time for custom tailoring, but they did it anyway. The suit
was simple and dark. Ellis would have been proud.
We returned to the garage after a short stop at a sandwich
shop. Wallace vowed not to cook more than one meal a day for me. I thanked him
nonetheless.
“Do you mind if I work out first,” I asked. “It’s been a
while and I could use the exercise.”
Wallace shook his head and tossed my sandwich in the fridge.
“You want to work on the car after lunch?” he asked.
“Sounds great.”
I took my clothes purchases upstairs and changed into some
sweatpants, t-shirt, and jogging shoes. I came down the stairs and took off
running. I didn’t have a destination, just a time in my head. I counted the
blocks and lengthened my stride to eat through them faster. My body still ached
from the jail beating, but I knew that a workout had a way of focusing my mind,
putting me back on track.
I ran three miles in just over twenty minutes, looping my
way back to the garage. Once there, I found the overhead door open, so I jogged
inside and went straight to crunches. Again and again I hit each repetition,
then I rolled back into leg raises until my stomach was on fire. I rolled over
and started into pushups, until I felt the muscles screaming in my chest. I
switched to one handed pushups and hit five before switching. In the moment, I
had forgotten about my recently dislocated shoulder, so the pain jarred me back
to reality.
I switched into shadow boxing, jabbing, circling, footwork,
then combinations, then into a seamless blend of a mixed bag of fighting styles
I picked up over the years. Krav Maga that I learned from an Israeli friend out
East. Savate that I picked up from a Frenchman in Quebec. Muay Thai that I
learned from an immigrant merchant who I paid to teach me, so he could afford
to bring his family over to the States.
At last, I stopped, breathing hard and covered in sweat. I
realized that Wallace was watching me.
“Are we going to work on the car now?” he asked.
I nodded, too winded to answer.
“Good.”
He tossed me a water bottle and I caught it, but nearly lost
my balance. Wallace had the kindness to walk out of the room before he started
to laugh at me.
We worked on the car the rest of the day. I grabbed bites to
eat while I could. I finished my sandwich, drank my water bottle and grabbed
another. I was ready to work then and gave myself over to it.
We replaced the door and the
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