A True Story

There was once a heap in East Hambone
A city, best known for its sheep clones
Its frame was gone
Floors - it had none
Its owner was called Mr. Flintstone

I'll never forget the cold winter days in the barn. The large sliding-door windows allowed a view of the yard, where a dozen or so snow-covered Oldies patiently awaited their turn at the hands of the Meister. Inside, Three-finger Joe rubbed his back against the hot stovepipe until his fleece-lined overalls began to emit a burnt odor. I was standing deep down inside the mechanic's pit, on a thin layer of ice, wearing my father's old WW II leather army boots that had survived long marches through the Russian Steppe, and still had cold feet. Armed with a large wire brush and a screwdriver, I raised my hands and started to work away on another section of the Plugmontz Bacaruda that loomed above me. (Yes, that's how the Swiss seller had spelled the make and model in his newspaper ad. And I had traveled almost 2,000 miles to collect that rusty hulk.)

When I purchased the convertible, I actually thought it to be a fine classic automobile; after a blissful summer of cruising with the top down and a battery-powered boom box behind the seats blaring Prince Charles and the Revolution's funk from a scratchy cassette tape, reality hit home.

Probing with the screwdriver, I explored soft spots on the underbelly of my car, brushing away layers of old undercoating, scale and surface rust with the old wire brush, until what little metal was left after my eager attacks appeared shiny and clean. Then, Three-finger Joe would fire up the old wire-fed welder. He quickly snipped a small repair panel out of a large sheet of steel and went to work.

BRRZZT, BRRZZT, BRRRRRZZT! I tried to shield my eyes with both hands, Joe just squinted and welded, blindly. Every so often, he would grab a large hammer and bang the freshly finished portion into shape, slowly closing another gaping hole. I would stick my screwdriver into a large can of Rustoleum and attempt to stir the icy molasses.

Joe was missing the index and middle finger of his right hand, an old lawnmower repair-attempt injury, and a couple of empty leather glove fingers were flapping as the welding continued. Neither one of us uttered a single word. Once Joe was done with his job, I slopped on a thick layer of primer. Then I attacked the next section of the car's floors while Three-finger Joe was looking on from above, rubbing his backside against that hot stovepipe.

In this fashion, we spent every Monday during that winter. Which lasts about seven months in Northern Germany. By the time we were finished with our patchwork-quilt labor of love and had rinsed the last layer of rusty dandruff off of our hair, David Bowie had already played most of the Open Air venues on his "Let's Dance" tour, so it must have been late June. Emerging from the pit, I swore a sacred oath never to touch a rusty car again.