Saturday, May 27, 2006

The Old Man and the Car Dealership

My fellow Blogger has posted a couple of posts now centering around a certain Old Man. This Old Man is of the crusty sort, which invariably makes him interesting, nuanced, and crotchety. I will now tell another tale. Another chapter in the already full life of---

"Shut up boy. Your fancy talk's givin' me gas."

Oop. Well, why don't I just get started, huh?

"You do that."


The Old Man and the Car Dealership

The corner of Humblebum and Cornwonk formed a busy intersection in the Old Man's town. It was a pretty town of about twenty thousand, and had a thriving downtown business district. The streets were clean, the motorists on them polite and unhurried. It was the beginning of a particularly idyllic vernal equinox, and the region's songbirds were returning.

The Old Man put away his air rifle.

"Time t'mosey on down to the infernal whatever-it-is, I reckon," mumbled the Old Man as he tossed his beat up old gun lovingly down the basement stairs. It clattered to rest somewhere on the dark tiled floor, and the Old Man secretly hoped it would break so he could complain about it later.

"Now whur's my durn-blasted chair?"

When the Old Man found his rickety aluminum lawn chair with the cactuses on it, he gave it a sound thrashing with his cane for being so hard to locate.

"That'll teach ya t'sass me, y'moldy old whathaveyou!"

It was the Old Man's habit on nice days to drag his chair out to the intersection of Humblebum and Cornwonk to yell at cars. He was especially fond of yelling at green ones.

"Green cars is the work of the devil!" he cawed, shaking a gnarled fist at a stop sign. He stared the sign down, then continued his determined shuffle. "Rotten octagons. Think they's so important. Hmph!"

Today was different. His view down the road to his right (Humblebum) was blocked. The Old Man was vexed and annoyed. He threw his chair onto the lawn in front of the car dealership, and stormed slowly to the building's glass double doors.

"Hey! You there! Fat guy with the whaddyacallit! The grub-bag! Open these heckblasted doors, or I'll whomp you proper!" He poked the doors with his cane. His cane had a silver duck head on the handle end. It was rubber on the pointy end, and it made an ominous squeaking on the glass. The man on the inside carrying a briefcase paused, stared, and then walked to the doors and pushed one open.

"Can I hel--"

"Like fire you can! Fetch me the manager of this establishment, or I'll commence a-whompin your sorry--"

"Sir, are you okay? Can I--"

"Don't innerupt me! 'Tain't polite. I just wanted to warn you all before I set loose on them gasbags what's been blockin' my view. They gotta go, and they's gonna go!"

The salesman, whose name was Dennis, stepped back a bit. "Gasbags?"

"Don't give me nunna yer monkey sauce, son. One'a you hotshots fastened 'em on to yer autocars! To the aerials! W
hat fer AM ray-dee-oh!"

"The...the balloons?"

"Dirigibles! Lil' tiny dirigibles on strings! Don't get fancy with me, on account'a you're wearin' a suit, and I ain't. I don't cotton to that attitude, boy."

The Old Man peered around Dennis, and into the showroom. He caught the salesman a sharp rap on the shin. He changed his mind.

"I changed my mind! Jag me a ride in that there auto-mobile, and I'll fix up them gasbags later, eh?" He waved his duck cane at a black Mazda RX-8. A horseshoe fell out of his pocket and hit the floor with a clang. Dennis looked in the direction the wavering cane indicated.

"The RX-8? want a ride?" This guy was either a nutty billionaire, or just plan nuts. Giving the old man a lookover, noting the slouch hat, the bedroom slippers and the spotless, immaculately tailored bathrobe, he decided to take a chance on the former assumption.

"Less gummin' and more brummin'!" said the Old Man, and made engine noises with his mouth. Old Man spit flew in a fine mist. Dennis went to get the keys to the sports car. He returned to the showroom to find the Old Man prodding the car's taillights with his cane's rubber tip.

"Where do ya crank this old sausage? Your modern cars... Bah!"

"You don't have to crank this model, sir. If you'd allow me to--"

"Allow nuthin'! Y'know what? You kin keep yer modern deviltry to yourself, fatty! I've had enough of this dill puckery, and I'm gettin' all itchy again. Git them doors fer me!"

Dennis recieved a parting whack on the shin from the cane as the Old Man bumbled from the building. As the door hissed shut, Dennis watched in dumbstruck fascination as the Old Man began to bite through the balloons' strings. The doors were double-paned glass, but muffled rantings still leaked into the showroom.

"Mumble grumble donkey sausage... grumble! Whut the... mumble... doo? Dirigibles! Mumblemumble...gasbags! Infernal mumble blockin'..."


I hope I've represented his tale with sufficient accuracy. For as nuanced and complex an individual as the Old Man demands a methodical approach.

"Methodical my wattles! Git off that glowin' typewriter boy, and fetch me up some crackers!"

Oop. Get right on that.


The Stupid Blogger said...

Yes! Gotta love the Old Man. First, I like the subtle reference to the horseshoe. Second, the word bumble gets me everytime. I think we have a winner here, not only in this post, but the Old Man in general.

FooDaddy's FooDaddy said...

Great stuff, boy!

Paul "FooDaddy" Brand said...

Just thought I'd clear this up: "brummm!" is the noise you make with your mouth to simulate a car's engine revving up. Not YOU, personally, perhaps, but some of us dopes.

Primal said...