The Convertible – Breakdown

This is the fourth Convertible story. The first two, "The Convertible" and its sequel "The Convertible -- Another Road" are closely connected and should be read together, but from the third story onward, the Convertible stories are standalones, the charmed 1955 TR2 being the sole thread tying them together.

Sometimes when writing a story, help comes from unexpected places. Once again, I owe thanks and give much credit to my muse RiverMaya for her invaluable cultural guidance and inspiration.

Also, another huge thank you to the eagle-eyed Verbalinians --my ace in the hole for editing.

Much credit goes to my team, but as I keep writing until the last possible moment, any errors are entirely mine.

Enjoy.

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It was green and shiny. Amanda would have loved it.

A restored British racing green 1955 Triumph TR2 convertible similar to the two that raced at Le Mans in 1955, it's a real sports car, comfort was definitely not a consideration in the design. Steering wheel, stick shift, hand brake, speedometer, tachometer, fuel gauge, oil pressure gauge, temperature gauge, battery gauge, starter knob, choke, buttons for the wipers, that was about it. No A/C, no satellite radio, no seat heaters, and no side windows, just a British Everflex vinyl top and side curtains for inclement weather.

I bought it off an online classic car auction -- my winning bid was a hair over $40,000. Nobody my age would buy it for a road trip, it was totally impractical. I figured if the 1955 Standard Triumph team driver Mortimer Morris-Goodall could drive it for 12 of the 24 hours at Le Mans, then I could drive it for a few hours at a time on an Interstate highway.

I'd bought it for my wife Amanda, but now she was gone.

My name is Shaun Parrish. I'm a widower, 44 years old. I was married to my wife for 14 years, until she died last year from colon cancer. It spread fast; she'd started feeling ill, but our primary care doctor didn't take it too seriously at first; by the time we got Amanda to an oncologist, it was too late to do anything. The cancer had metastasized throughout her body, and a few weeks later I lost her. We'd married in our late 20's but no kids ever came of it, so here I was, all alone.

After Amanda got sick, I retired early and cashed out my options from the Silicon Valley company I'd helped start, bitter about all the time I'd wasted working instead of spending quality time with my wife. The car was her idea; right up to the end, she kept talking about getting better and the two of us going on a road trip in a classic sports car. I submitted the winning bid six days before she died; she was so thrilled we'd won and looked forward to sitting in it. The car was delivered the day after I buried her.

The day after the funeral, I stayed in bed and started drinking. My older brother Ron had skipped the funeral, but called and said he was praying for me; I told him fat lot of good that did, and hung up on him. He didn't really give a shit, I'm sure he only called because his wife MaryAnne told him to. I'd saved his house from foreclosure during the 2007-2008 recession, and unlike him, MaryAnne was still grateful.

They had two kids, 16-year-old Daniel and 18-year-old Pamela at the time, and I didn't want to see my niece and nephew lose their home because their old man couldn't manage money for shit. I'd also kicked in for their college tuition a time or two when their mother MaryAnne asked. I had a soft spot for her, she was the kindest person I knew next to my Amanda. I always felt sorry for MaryAnne because she was married to Ron; but I had to hand it to her, no matter how often he made bad decisions and fucked their lives up, she remained loyal to him.

My nephew Daniel was now a senior at an Ivy League college in Pennsylvania, and Pamela was working as a logistics specialist for a transportation company in Miami. Neither one ever called me or wrote me, not even after Amanda died. I doubt if they ever knew I'd helped their family out, but if they did know, they were assholes just like their old man.

Some day after the funeral I woke up and I didn't know what day it was, but my head was pounding like a Neil Peart drum solo. I staggered through the kitchen, searching through the cabinets for some ibuprofen. There were three empty Jack Daniels bottles in the sink, so I think that meant today was Thursday. I reached down into my boxer shorts to scratch my balls and realized that it was the first good thing I'd felt all fucking week. I found the painkiller and knocked back 3 tablets instead of the usual two. My head needed all the help it could get right now.

The doorbell rang, which I found odd since my upscale neighborhood wasn't the kind of place where salespeople went door-to-door. I grabbed a dirty Hawaiian shirt off the floor to cover up my chest and opened the door. "Whatever it is I don't fucking want it," I started to say, then I saw it was my sister-in-law, MaryAnne.

I hadn't seen her since Amanda's funeral. MaryAnne was 47 and a sweetheart, not to mention still attractive after 25 years with my asshole brother Ron; if she'd had been a widow, I would have definitely tapped that, as the kids say these days. She had pretty freckled face framed by shoulder-length brown hair, wide hips, a sweet squishable booty, a large and tempting bosom, and a big soft belly perfect for a man to bury his face in after eating out her womanhood (not that my brother would ever consider that!). However, the last time I checked, fratricide was still frowned upon by the law enforcement community, so aside from one drunken kiss under the mistletoe on Christmas Eve in 2003, I'd have zero shots at MaryAnne's affections.

Today she was wearing a loose sweatshirt and yoga pants, her hair tied back in a ponytail. "Hey, sorry for the rude welcome, sis, what's up?"

"Hi, Shaunie, (she was the only person allowed to call me that), I was just checking in on you. You're not answering your phone."

"That's because after the funeral, I went to the beach and chucked it in the ocean. I didn't want to talk to anybody, ever again."

"Do you need anything? You know I worry about you." It was true, when Amanda was sick, MaryAnne was always around helping.

"I'm getting by, MaryAnne. You're an angel for asking. My asshole brother doesn't deserve you."

"Shaunie, don't talk like that. Ron loves you, he's just not good at showing it."

"MaryAnne, you're the sweetest woman alive, but you know darn well if I didn't have a decent bank account, Ron would forget I was alive." I don't know what possessed me, maybe it was grief, maybe it was anger, but I took her into my arms. "Look at you, 47 years old and two grown kids, you're still a beauty. When was the last time Ron told you that?"

MaryAnne's cheeks were reddening now, "Shaunie, stop you're making me blush," she said quietly, "besides, I'm just a frumpy old housewife."

"Goddam it, MaryAnne, if I was Ron I'd be loving you up every day." I held her closer to me. "Life is too fucking short for a man not to cherish his wife. When I think of all the times I wasted, when I could have been with Amanda instead of working..." I squeezed my eyes shut, the pain ripping through me; tears filled my eyes for a minute.

Then I did it; I leaned down and kissed MaryAnne's lips, long and passionately. I felt her arms pull me tighter, and felt her tongue slip in past my lips. My cock got hard, and since I was only wearing boxers and a Hawaiian shirt, I was pretty sure she knew she'd given me an erection. I reached down behind her and caressed her wonderful ass cheeks, then pulled her pubic mound against my hardness.

Then I stopped, and whispered in her ear, "If you weren't married to Ron, I'd take you into the bedroom right now and fuck you senseless, maybe even put another baby in that sweet belly. Don't ever say to me or anyone else that you're frumpy, MaryAnne, because it's a fucking lie. Ron's forgotten that, but I've been looking at you for 25 years and you're as gorgeous now as you were when I was best man at your wedding. I sometimes kick myself for not punching Ron out that day and stepping in as your groom." I kissed her one more time, feeling her fingers running through my hair.

I loosened my grip, but still held her in my arms. Her cheeks were burning red now; she was almost breathless. I think I had her attention. "I think before I leave, I'm going to send an email to my dickless brother and remind him he'd better remember to treat you right. There are still men out there who'd steal you from him in a heartbeat. He's just lucky that my ethics are still intact, but if you put out signals there'd be a line of guys forming for a woman as hot as you."

MaryAnne managed to get her breath back, "You're leaving? Where will you go?"

"I have no idea. I cashed out of my company and selling the condo; any furniture or small appliances that you want, take them. Anything left over is being donated to Habitat For Humanity. I'm going on the road with the Triumph I bought for Amanda and I. Where will I end up? It's hard to say, I'll send you a postcard when I get there. There's nothing for me in the Silicon Valley anymore, MaryAnne, my life here ended when I lost Amanda."

She asked in a small voice, "What about me?" Her arms tightened around me. I saw there were tears in her eyes.

I sighed, "You have a quarter of a century invested in Ron. Like I said, I may not have much left, but I still have my ethics. I hate that ungrateful brother of mine, but I can't take away the most valuable thing in his life, even if he's too fucking stupid to understand what he has in you." I kissed her again, and whispered in her ear, "I wish that kiss on Christmas Eve 2003 would never have ended." Saying that, I released her.

She whispered back, "Goodbye Shaunie," and walked out the door.

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Siskiyou County is the largest of the three northernmost counties in California. Any further north, you're in Oregon. Home to Mt. Shasta, a dormant -- not extinct! - volcano, it's bisected by Interstate 5; it's also criss-crossed by smaller highways and backroads that lead to a number of small rural towns, towns like McCloud, a tourist town with a population of 1,101 as of the last census.

About 2 miles outside the McCloud city limits is where the rear differential on the TR2 self-destructed, apparently due to metal fatigue. There's one gas station/garage in McCloud, Chuck's Old 66. It mostly caters to the tourists who pass through in the pursuit of fishing, biking or hiking in the summer and skiing in the winter.

I was standing in the service bay with the mechanic, Ernie, (at least that's what the nametag on his greasy overalls said) and looking at the pile of tiny sharp metal pieces that had fallen out when he'd removed the Triumph's differential backplate.

"How bad is it?"

"Well, if it were a newer make and model, I'd just pop down to one of the dealerships in Dunsmuir or Yreka, you'd be back on the road in 2 -- 3 days. However, given the TR2 parts factory closed sometime in the 1970s, I'll have to get on the Innerweb and find me a specialized Triumph parts dealer who carries 1955 differential parts."

"Then we got to order the parts and have them shipped here, take at least a week if it's coming from LA, but if I gotta get the parts from back East, Florida or New York, say, could take 2 to 3 weeks for them to get here. If I got to send back to England for 'em, it's anybody's guess. Once they get here, it'll probably take me few days to get things running right. Given the age of this old girl and the fact you're going cross-country in her, I'd recommend a brake job too, so that's at least a one-day job by itself if everything goes perfect, and for a car this old, I can already tell you it won't.

Anyhoo, from a time standpoint, my guess is your Triumph is stuck here for at least a month. If you got to be somewhere by a certain time, mister, you'd best go find you a car rental place, this old gal won't get you there any time soon. If'n you want to sell her, she's a beauty, I'd be more than willing to buy her off you. Then you could buy yourself a good car..."

I held up my hand and stopped him right there. This car was my last link to Amanda, no way was I selling. I became a little choked up but managed to say "I've got nowhere to go, and I'm not interested in selling her. I'll go ahead and find some local lodging; I'm not leaving without that car. Order the parts from wherever you need to, let's get this done."

I left the garage and walked across the street to a Bed & Breakfast place called The Sugar Pine Inn, paying 30 days in advance for lodging. If the TR2 was repaired before then, well, bless the innkeepers, I guess.

A few doors down was a diner, The GearJammer; the logo on the sign was a caricature of a crazy laughing truck driver with his head out the window of a cartoon Freightliner. The diner walls inside were decorated with truck parts, roadmaps, and an occasional autographed picture of a celebrity that had passed through. I'd seen a sign reading 'Dishwasher Wanted' when I walked in.

As I ate my lunch, (an open-faced turkey sandwich with gravy, mashed potatoes, and over-cooked broccoli), I had an idea. If I was stuck here for 30 days, what better way to zone out than to do something mindless? No customer complaints, no shareholder lawsuits, no industry trade interviews, just wash dishes. Perfect!

I paid the big scowling man behind the register $7.87 in cash; the dude looked like every short-order sitcom character you've ever seen on TV. Gray hair, white t-shirt, stained apron over a thick waist, even the standard curmudgeonly attitude. After I paid, I left a $20 bill as a tip in the booth for my waitress.

She was a little woman with salt-and-pepper hair I'd guess was in her 50's. Her scowl matched Big Scowling Guy's perfectly but when she saw my tip, she beamed. At that moment, I thought to myself that in the right light, she might even be considered pretty.

Grabbing the 'Dishwasher Wanted' sign out of the window, I handed it to Big Scowling Guy.

He looked me up and down, then scowled even more. "What's this," he asked, "you some kind of a joker or something?"

"No," I replied, "I'm your new dishwasher." Big Scowling Guy looked me up and down and sneered.

"Sorry, pal, but you look like a guy who's the boss of a guy, who's the boss of another guy who hires the dishwasher. I think you're overqualified." He moved to put the sign back, but I put my hand on his arm. He gave me a look that made my blood run cold. "You got 5 seconds to take your hand off me pal, or you will live to regret it."

I pulled my hand back like I'd touched a live high-voltage wire. "Sorry," I said, "but please hear me out. You're right, until a few weeks back I was the Chief Commercial Officer of a Silicon Valley company, Slizzle, an Internet company specializing in snake-related merchandise; snake food, pet supplies, habitats, t-shirts, tablecloths, stuffed toys, you name it. When my wife got sick, though, I cashed out and quit.

Later, when my wife died, I sold everything, pulled up stakes and hit the road. That 60-year-old green car you see up on the lift at Chuck's Old 66 is mine. The differential blew up on me about 2 miles out of town, so I'm stuck here until she's fixed. With the parts being so rare, Ernie says it might be a month, so I need something to do during the day until she's repaired.

I was a restaurant dishwasher all through high school and college, so I have the skills. I'm still not over losing my wife; washing dishes without people being in my face would be therapeutic. I could use the solitude, you could use a dishwasher, whattaya say?"

"Well, OK then, but it only pays minimum wage," he grumbled, and stuck out his hand, "I'm Allen North, the owner of this place; that waitress you just tipped $20 is my wife, Gina.

"Shaun Parrish," I replied. "Oh, one more thing, Allen. I'm a very private person, so I'd appreciate it if everything I just told you about me stays between you, Gina, and me, OK? Anybody asks, I'm just some drifter pushing dishes for $12.00 an hour, OK?"

He nodded in agreement, "Nice to meet you Shaun, now go in the back and clock in. Your ass is late, and you got lunch dishes waiting."

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The next day I went over and talked to Ernie during my lunch break; it seems that he'd found Triumph part suppliers in the US that had some of the parts I needed, but not enough to finish the job. He'd found one in British Columbia that could send a complete set, but they'd have to go through US customs inspections to get here. Fearing a terrorist sneaking into the US disguised as a TR2 differential, it might take a week or more. Great, my damned tax dollars at work.

It was just after our 2pm closing time when I'd finished washing up the lunch dishes. I'd just taken off my apron when I happened to look out the front window through the kitchen pass-through. A beautiful copper-colored Harley chopper was parked out front, metal-flake paint gleaming in the sun. I was standing there admiring it when two people started shouting in the dining area.

Walking out the kitchen door, I saw a black leather-clad biker and a heavy-set but pretty Asian woman having a heated discussion. The guy had over-done the leather thing, he reminded me of the biker from the Village People; I was taken aback by the woman, however; her facial structure was incredibly beautiful.

Now let me point out I'm what old songs used to describe as a 'sucker for a pretty face'. This wasn't necessarily a good thing; on more than one occasion a pretty face had led me straight into a shitload of trouble. This pattern was what prevented me from getting married until I had turned 30. With Amanda's pretty face, however, I'd found the right one at last.

Anyway, Biker Dude is mad because Pretty Asian Woman had run out of money and the Harley needed gas. He wasn't very nice about expressing his displeasure either, calling her useless, going on about how if she wasn't so damned fat the bike wouldn't use so much gas. You know, all those words of love that really win a woman's heart.

Pretty Asian Woman was no shrinking violet; she was tall for an Asian woman, about 5'7', and seemed pretty headstrong. She snapped back at Biker Dude, saying if he wasn't so lazy he'd have earned some money on his own for once, and stressed how her parents had refused to send her any more money until she broke up with him. I'm paraphrasing, of course, it was a lot less eloquent and a lot more profanity-filled than that.

Biker Dude, not a fan of being told off, slapped Pretty Asian Woman hard enough that she went down. Biker Dude is huge, about 6'3", 300 pounds. Not cool, not cool at all.

Feeling like Jack going up the fucking beanstalk, I stepped in front of Pretty Asian Woman, holding my hands up like Officer Friendly directing traffic and shouted, "Whoa, whoa whoa, enough of that."

Biker Dude glared at me, like he was going to deck me next. I knew damned good and well that I was about to get my ass kicked unless I came up with a diversion. No cops were on hand to save me - in a town this small and remote there'd be no fast response if you dialed 911. Having no police force, it would take the Siskiyou County Sheriff at least 30 minutes to send a unit.

I decided to deal with Biker Dude the same way I dealt with hostile board members at my old company; throw money at them. I opened my wallet and pulled out my last bill, $100, and held it out.

"You want gas money? Here! This will buy you enough gas to get to the Canadian border, the Mexican border, or the Nevada border, whichever way you're headed. Just stop with the physical stuff, OK?"

Biker snorted in derision, then snatched the cash. Going out to the bike, he grabbed a small bundle from one of the leather saddlebags, brought it back in and threw it at Pretty Asian Woman, who'd now gotten back on her feet. She was trying to be tough and hold back her tears but wasn't succeeding.