Death and his Cadillac
On the top of the hill, across from Bowen Park, and beside one of the city’s cemeteries, a black and white two car garage stood. It was what most would call quaint. The old white brick complimenting the recent arrivals of the fuel pumps, not at all what you would expect with such a merge of the past and present. Perhaps it was the wooden garage doors painted with the ‘olde tyme’ lettering that gave the perception, tying everything together. Inside the small building everything had been preserved over the seventy-five years of its existence, right down to the candy jars polished to a pristine shine lining the shelves. It was this definite difference that kept the customers. Many of the surrounding residents still remembered when Collingwood was a bustling coal mining city, and they appreciated the attempt to preserve that period of time.
Even with such an edge in the community, times were tough. Bill knew another renovation was needed with updated equipment to service the new computerized care, but the funds needed to forge such a venture always seemed to be just out of reach. He knew it was not for lack of loyal clients, more like it was his customer base was quickly being delivered six feet under to the competition next door.
Gone were the days of devoting your dollar to the small shop with the best service, the days had come where the ‘big boys’ could move in and undercut your pricing…too bad if the customer got ripped off when they were told that something unrelated needed to be fixed. That was the way ‘those’ boys did business isn’t it? Not for the first time he wondered what Papa, his grandfather would have though about this situation, probably rolling in his grave, and swearing in Italian. Bill looked to the ceiling as though he could somehow transport his thoughts to his long dearly departed. Don’t worry Papa, I would sell my soul before I let anything happen to the shop.
Bill let out a wistful sigh and came around from behind the counter, the front glass window with its promise of sunlight, calling to him. He could see Bowen Park directly across the busy road, the colors of fall decorating the trees with a be-speckled red and golden necklace. Wouldn’t be long until a westerly wind came and robbed them of their brilliant jewelry, a slight wrinkle of his nose appeared at the thought of such a preliminary mess to winter. Movement to the right of his vision caught his attention. Tennis players, some serious in their whites and some decked out in shorts and T-shirts, ran about the courts each trying to out maneuver their opponent with brilliantly laid balls. It all looked like too much work to Bill and his protruding belly. He chuckled at the thought of himself on one of those courts, white tank top T-shirt fringed with black chest hair, knobby knees crowning black dress socks. He closed his eyes and ran his hands over his tired face, as a black sedan pulled around the corner of the garage and rolled to a stop in front of one of the fuel pumps.
Bill opened his vision to the sun gleaming off its black, spotless painted skin. An inexplicable fear gripped his heart at the mere sight of the darkened windows, and shinning chrome. Somehow he knew that the fan belt of such a machine would be made of human ligaments which would scream with unfulfilled dreams. Its pistons would run on the blood and souls of those long dead. Such a chariot of the reaper looked out of place in the brilliant natural light; it would be more suited and completely absorbed by the darkness of night, the headlights splicing the darkness like those of a demon. He rubbed his eyes again, hard, as though the action would wipe the menace from his vision. To his dismay, a slow opening of one eye and then the other only increased the detail of his sight. The large jagged rocks of the fence leading to the graveyard just beyond gave way to its upright markers a seemingly appropriate and timeless audience. The two, the luminous car and the cold grey of the graveyard, complementing each other, like well-suited lovers.
Bill’s breath ceased as the left-hand door opened breaking the satin like seal. A man appeared, still whole and without mark. He stood scraping the sky’s ceiling, a cocoon of black cloth; his uneven gait, at this distance seemed the only peculiarity. Bill, sitting amongst the fumes of petrol and rubber, his hands as his wife had always known them covered in grease, remembered to breathe. He saw, if only for an instant, as the giant released the nozzle and began to pump fuel, an odd shimmer overcame the man and machine. It was as though the apparition was just that, a ghostly image. The vision before him changed, the modern car becoming a black horse driven hearse and the suit the man was wearing became a top hat and cape, another shimmer, and again all was as it had been before.
Everyday shapes of fan belts, tire irons and the plastic oil and transmission liquid bottles lined up by the window like little soldiers suddenly felt foreign, as if none wore the normal shroud of reality.
The man in black returned the nozzle to its perch and crossing the short distance to the garage in what seemed too little strides for any human; stopped with his massive hand on the door handle, his strange eyes peering in through the glass. Bill searched his face. Hollow jowls and deepening lines, made his colorless face look deceptively long, and as Bill’s eyes caught his, could feel his skin begin to crawl. It was as though he saw right through Bill; those ice grey eyes, so devoid of life and thought. There was something else, although he couldn’t be sure; Bill thought he had seen something skitter behind them.
The bell above the door chimed out a warning at the stranger’s breach, as he fit his whole frame through the door and once inside straightened his massive girth; hair grazing the ceiling tiles made a trail amongst the dust that had found residence there. The outside air brushed the stranger and delivered Bill an air of evil. He imagined in the underlying musk objects of destruction. It smelled of foul nightmares, forgotten hope, of despair and loathing, capturing Bill’s heart with such heaviness, that he felt as though there were not enough tears in the world to drown the sorrow spawned by this man’s presence.
Instinctively, clutching the silver St. Christopher hanging around his neck, Bill waited for the man to approach the counter. Dread filled his being as he imagined his soul in the possession of this stranger’s force. Don’t look him in the eyes he told himself, having the sense that his world would cease to exist if he looked directly into those icy pools this close. Bill stepped back as the mammoth came forward, his had risen in a clutched fist. It opened and something gold and shiny fell between his massive fingers. Hitting the counter, it bounced twice and began a twirling upon the glass, mesmerizing Bill with a light reflecting dance. So much so that he didn’t notice the departure of his bizarre patron. He followed the coin with his eyes until it came to a rest upon the flat surface. Somewhere near he heard a bell chime and a door close; he didn’t look up, too involved in the delicate imagery carved into the sovereign. A warrior riding a mighty rearing steed was in the throes of slaying a huge dragon. Bill brought his fingers close to the image, then thinking the better of it decided to turn the coin over with two ball point pens instead. On the other side of the coin was the image of a youthful Queen Victoria, her hair swept up in a chignon and her nose slightly raised in a regal portrait. Above her were the words “Victoria Dei Gratia” and the date of 1861. Bill looked up; his brows knitted in question, and caught the rear of the caddy as it slipped through the fence stone pillars and out of sight.
© 2009 Tigra