Читать книгу Blind.Faith 2.0.50 - Tomasz Tatum - Страница 14

BARNZ AND THE BUENA.VISTA

Barnz came sliding out feet first from beneath the vintage buena.Vista convertible that stood parked in the garage. The metal rollers of the creeper upon which he lay produced an obscenely loud ratcheting noise as they rolled and scraped their way across the bare concrete floor, heralding his emergence from beneath the left side of the car. The sound the rollers produced rapidly rocketed up the open-ended scale of aural unpleasantries, commencing with a boisterous rattle and culminating in an ear-splitting horrendous screeching, scratching sound. Sitting up straight and yet completely unfazed by the considerable commotion that he had just caused, Barnz paused to yawn heartily and wiped away a few annoying beads of sweat that dotted his brow. For this he used an old checkered blue and white dish towel which he habitually kept stuffed in the left sleeve of his grey overalls whenever he was working.

And as Barnz was almost always working at some task or another, his dish towel rag was almost always near at hand.

He was an innovative tinkerer and he was absolutely superb–some people might say divine–at improvisation. People who had had the pleasure or the simple good fortune to work together with him–Fulcrum, for example–might easily argue that he was something of a magician who was endowed with the gift of being able to resurrect anything mechanical from the kingdom of rust and disuse, or even death through consignment onto the scrapheap, and get it moving or in working order again.

And it truly seemed that just about anything and everything Barnz touched ended up being as good as new, or even better.

Squinting momentarily as a few tiny droplets of sweat burned briefly in his eyes, Barnz dried his face with his rag and then donned his shades again. Although he was completely and utterly sightless, his comprehension of everything that happened around him was complete and total. It was uncanny. It was almost as though he could, in some inexplicable manner, not only see but see absolutely everything.

He sat motionless on the creeper for another moment, lost in his own thoughts while facing toward the open garage door and the street beyond. It still was very early in the morning and a hushed pre-rush hour quiet reigned outside. With the exception of a few pigeons which were cooing contentedly on a ledge of the ad.Board, momentarily eschewing a life of luxury at the beach courtesy of EscudoAirways, illuminated high above and behind the house, all was silent.

Barnz turned as he rose from his creeper somewhat stiffly, cocking his head slightly as he looked up at an old clock hanging on the white-washed rear wall of his modest workshop as though his sightless eyes were helping him to read the dial. It was now 6:15 am. He had just spent nearly two full hours lying prone and tinkering away at something beneath the car.

“Miracles take their time,” he thought and smiled to himself. He would have to be at work today by 7:00 am.

A moment later Barnz had stood up and was wiping his hands on another rag, this one hanging over a strategically-placed polished chrome ring mounted near the light switch. Upon finishing, he grasped his white cane in passing and gave the creeper cart from which he had just alighted a leisurely push with his right foot, sending it rattling over toward the wall on the opposite side of the garage. It came to a halt directly before an improvised wooden work bench that was covered with an odd and jumbled assortment of tools.

There were wrenches, screwdrivers, drill bits and hammers.

Batteries and wires and scissors and light bulbs.

Numerous springs and rods were strewn across the surface of the work bench. And cans, some of which were full and others empty.

Oil and solvent.

A few whose labels revealed that they contained paint and sealant.

And somewhere, amid this small display of creative chaos, stood his coffee cup. Right where he had left it, of course. Barnz had an uncompromisingly purist approach toward his coffee in the morning.

It had to be strong and black. No milk. No sugar.

But then, this was actually rather unsurprising. After all, Barnz was a purist in almost everything he did and touched.

Picking up his cup and taking it with him as he walked past, Barnz stepped over a second dolly cart and judiciously threaded his way between a collection of tools and car parts spread out across the floor in advance preparation for another job he was about to commence with. On the far side of the work bench, a small gleaming white basin was mounted on the wall. Upon reaching this, he turned on the water tap and held his hands briefly under the cold stream of water, subsequently gouging his fingers into the grainy yellow cleaning paste which he kept in yet another one of the gazillion cans that adorned his garage. This one was perched on a small ledge affixed directly next to the basin and mounted only slightly higher. He scrubbed hard, thoroughly cleansing his hands and fingernails, and rinsed them afterwards under the stream of running water spewing from the faucet. When he was done, he reached for an immaculately clean white hand towel, neatly folded at the top of a small stack that was positioned on a small metal shelf mounted directly beneath the basin and the ledge upon which the soap stood. With this he carefully dried his hands. After finishing, he quickly folded the towel in half again and tossed it into a small aluminum basket next to the door leading into the house.

Upon landing in this basket, the hand towel was still–or again–clean and dry, ready to be folded.

He rubbed his hands and fingers and gave them a look of approval as he walked toward a small white plastic table positioned adjacent to the front entrance door of the garage.

Atop this table, a small metallic blue thermos bottle awaited him here. He retrieved his mug from the workbench and placed it onto the tabletop and, after partially unscrewing the black plastic top of the bottle, poured himself a steaming hot cup of coffee. He took a sip to test the temperature and determined that it was still just a tad too hot for him to drink just now. He thought about what he would do next and decided that it would make sense to back the car out of the garage and park it in the street already in anticipation of his departure for work. He could drink his coffee when he had done this. It would be time to leave for the site very shortly anyhow.

He slowly screwed the top back onto the thermos bottle.

His coffee mug stood steaming on the table as he quickly changed clothes, donning a set of bright navy blue overalls that was much cleaner than those which he had been wearing while working beneath the buena.Vista. He hung the grey overalls that he had been wearing on a large hook attached below the end of a wooden shelf hanging on the side wall.

Settling himself comfortably into the driver’s seat, he punched the ignition button with his left index finger and listened carefully. The engine started up easily and hummed smoothly as it ran. The sonorous sound of the car was gratifying to his fine-tuned, mechanically-savvy ears as it stood idling in the garage. After listening intently for a few more seconds and deciding that what he heard now met with his unconditional approval, Barnz gingerly selected the softkey for reverse. His fingertips held the small tab behind the steering wheel lightly, thereby putting the car into gear. He backed it carefully out of the garage.

There was still no activity to be discerned outside.

In a fashion that was completely unique to Barnz’s manner of driving–after all, he was not only blind but also completely certain that there was never conflicting traffic whenever he elected to move about–and without even a pretense of looking both ways to ensure that the street was clear, Barnz backed the dazzlingly polished buena.Vista carefully into the road, straightened it out and parked it directly in front of the end of the short driveway that led up to the garage door.

There he would leave it standing and gleaming in the morning sun until he was ready to leave for work.

Before getting out of the car, however, he lowered the roof and then wiped the top of the dashboard panel thoroughly with one of his ubiquitous rags. He then got out, closing the door with its characteristically solid thumping sound, and returned to devote his attention to his cup of coffee. It would no doubt be perfect for drinking now.

There he stood, leaning on the frame of the garage door and lost in his thoughts as he allowed himself to admire his painstakingly restored car and contentedly sipped his coffee. The clock on the wall told him that he would have to be at work in about thirty minutes.

Barnz had just returned his nearly empty cup to the table and was just about to lower the garage door in preparation for his departure when he heard the sound of a car turning the corner outside his home. As he turned, facing again in the direction toward the street, he could sense and subsequently visualize the arrival of a blue and white police cruiser approaching at a snail’s pace. Barnz quickly surmised that it was no more than perhaps thirty or forty meters away at the moment he registered its approach. As he stood in the entrance to his garage and hesitated, the patrol car seemed to leisurely coast diagonally across the street and rolled to a stop on the left side of the road.

More precisely, the cruiser had come to a stop directly behind the buena.Vista parked at the end of his driveway.

There were four officers in uniform sitting inside the police car. Their badges and their sunglasses reflected the dazzling glare of the clear morning sun with the same radiance as the buena.Vista’s spotless chrome trim.

The officers seated in the squad car were busily examining the classic buena.Vista, gesturing animatedly as they appeared to discuss something about the vehicle among themselves. And while he couldn’t actually hear them, it was immediately clear to Barnz that the subject of their lively conversation revolved around his car. Before too very long, one of the officers happened to glance over in Barnz’s direction, noticing him as he stood wordlessly in his overalls, leaning on the frame of the garage door.

Barnz didn’t flinch. And even though no one had addressed him directly yet, it was suddenly very clear to him that this was the beginning of what could likely become a very unpleasant encounter.

The officer seated in the rear directly behind the driver of the squad car was none other than his recent acquaintance, PLΔcebo. Sergeant PLΔcebo, actually. The policeman jammed his thumb down on the black plastic button that lowered his window. As he did so, the rest of the car’s occupants stopped conversing and sat eyeing Barnz with some curiosity.

“Good morning, there!” bellowed PLΔcebo as he poked his head somewhat out the open window. Barnz could tell that he was chewing the obligatory wad of gum as he spoke.

“Good morning,” came the return greeting in a cordial voice.

“You know, that there’s a real nice car,” said the officer, grinning as he pointed at the buena.Vista. “Got any idea who it belongs to?”

“Well, actually, it’s mine,” answered Barnz calmly.

The police officer looked at Barnz with an exaggerated expression of astonishment: “Naaah! Come on now! Yours? You gotta be pullin’ my leg or something?”

There was brief pause in which no one said anything further.

Ending the awkward lull, Barnz spoke up again: “Nope. Not really. It’s mine. Nothing wrong with that, right?”

“So it’s yours, you say?” asked the officer. He grinned a faintly diabolical grin as he spoke.

“Anything wrong, he asks!” bellowed his colleague sitting next to him on the rear seat in exaggerated amusement as he began jabbing PLΔcebo in the ribs with his elbow. Both men began laughing hilariously. It was inane, almost as though they had suddenly and without warning begun tickling each other.

Then PLΔcebo stopped laughing abruptly and turned back to face Barnz.

“Anything wrong? Well, we don’t know yet,” he said through the open window of the squad car, looking at Barnz now with a mocking look of dutiful concern on his face. “But we sure could do our best and try to find out.”

He turned to address the officers sitting in the car with him.

“Ain’t that right, fellas? Can’t we?”

All were in loud and unanimous agreement.

PLΔcebo opened the door and quickly stepped out of the cruiser, smartly donning his cap and adjusting it repeatedly until he appeared satisfied that it was sitting correctly. It was a dark blue peaked cap of nearly Soviet-esque dimensions with the Libertyville@Esperantia state seal embroidered prominently upon it. And it sported lots of gold embroidery on the oversized bill.

Bird turd or scrambled eggs, as some people called it.

PLΔcebo walked slowly from the squad car and came to a halt directly behind Barnz’s car. A moment later, he flashed a thumbs-up signal to his fellow officers still sitting in the squad car. At this, the other three officers then also emerged from the cruiser and meandered around slowly until they all reassembled at the front end of the buena.Vista. They closely inspected the immaculate interior of the vehicle as they passed slowly along both the left and right sides of the car.

Just by his tone of voice and his demeanor, Barnz had already easily recognized PLΔcebo as being the very same officer who had dropped in unannounced at the PowerCrank construction site recently, rudely and utterly unnecessarily interrupting his consultations with Fulcrum. He smiled inwardly for an instant as he recalled the subsequent bit of pandemonium that had played out with him sitting perched atop his bulldozer and the officer hanging on the ladder having a tantrum. For an instant, he pondered how to best defuse the impending situation.

He thought about turning back the hands on his watch but then immediately decided to simply allow events to transpire as they would. After all, he still had half an hour. A lot could happen in that time.

“So, uh, like how old is it?” asked one of the cops without looking up.

“Not sure. It’s been pieced together from a variety of chassis components that I’ve salvaged over time. Originally, it packed a V 12 under the hood but that’s history now. I’d actually have to look in the papers if I wanted to give you an honest answer about the pedigree of the car. But it’s certainly older than any of us around here is, that’s for sure,” answered Barnz.

Perhaps it had been a mistake not to just reset the watch, the thought shot through Barnz’s mind. His mouth was suddenly drier than cotton.

“Well, that would mean it qualifies as being antique, then, don’t it?” answered the cop with a bit of a tease discernible in his voice. He deliberately drew the latter syllable out to make it sound like “ann-teeek.”

Barnz didn’t bother to reply.

Turn back time? He wondered. A voice in his head told him no, not yet.

PLΔcebo walked slowly and deliberately around the rear end of the car, mustering it and even caressing it wordlessly as he went. He stopped next to the driver’s side door, standing at the end of the driveway and facing Barnz directly. His feet, clad in the very same spit-shined black shoes he wore during their previous encounter, were spaced apart, toes facing outward as he stood. His thumbs were hooked almost casually into two belt loops at the sides of his trousers. The four fingers of his left hand seemed to be slowly stroking the handle of the SlapStick hanging at his side.

“So, like, what’d you say your name was?” he asked as he took a few steps in Barnz’s direction, peering out from beneath the rim of his blue apparatchik cap.

“Barnz,” was his reply. He didn’t move a muscle as he spoke and his gaze didn’t flinch.

“You know, you gotta have a mighty formidable ZipperCard to be paying for that thing,” answered PLΔcebo, pointing his thumb in a jabbing motion over his shoulder rearwards toward the car. His speech was on the verge of becoming nearly unintelligible because of the huge wad of gum which he would shove into one cheek when he spoke. He had an annoying habit of putting more and more gum into his mouth as the day progressed, causing his cheek to swell as though he were the uniformed sex-and-crime reality show incarnation of a khat-chewing Yemeni highland peasant-turned-officer transporting a wad of leaves in his jowls. As he stood at the end of the driveway facing Barnz, he withdrew yet another piece from one of the pockets of his trousers and slowly unwrapped it, stuffing the gum into his mouth first and then carelessly letting the tinfoil wrapper flutter to the ground. It landed directly in Barnz’s driveway.

“I guess you could see it that way. But I guess, at the end of the day, it’s just about what priorities one sets. I don’t think that there’s much point thinking too deeply about that,” replied Barnz in a casual sounding tone of voice. “I just do my job and don’t worry a whole lot about other folks’ business. And, with a bit of luck, they afford me the same courtesy.”

“Is that right? So tell me: what kinda job does a spooky old Bro like you actually do?” replied PLΔcebo in the most mockingly offhand manner he could muster. His eyes narrowed to provocative slits as he waited for a reply.

PLΔcebo was looking for an opportunity to pounce.

Barnz swallowed hard, registering both the slight as well as the threat implicit in the tone of it, but wisely remained outwardly composed.

“Lot of things, actually. But for the regular daytime job, I drive a bulldozer mainly. Speaking of which: I’ve got to get going now or I’ll be running real late.”

Although he instinctively and immediately knew that the odds were slim, Barnz was nonetheless hopeful that he would succeed in ending the encounter elegantly in this fashion.

At first, his words seemed to hover in the air. There was no discernible response from PLΔcebo. Trying to gauge his reaction was like watching a Holstein cow trying to figure out why flies buzzed around its ass all day long or why it sometimes rained. His expression simply didn’t budge.

Then he slowly broke into a wide beaming grin.

“Hey! I remember now,” he declared. “I’ve been tryin’ to figure it out but I think I remember now. Bulldozer Barnz!” He turned to the other officers and spoke, his voice exuberant and sinister at the same time.

“Guys, you ain’t gonna believe it, but this man here’s practically a friend. He’s like a damned buddy of mine.”

He stepped back to the buena.Vista and rejoined the small cluster comprised of his colleagues who were still busily inspecting it. He patted one of them–El Niño was his name–on the shoulder enthusiastically, thumping his flat and open hand on his shoulder repeatedly as he pointed toward Barnz.

“May I introduce to you gentlemen: Bulldozer Barnz!” he announced loudly to the other three officers. “We go way back! I mean, we’re real tight.”

“That right? Hey! Do ya think he might let us take a ride in this then?” asked El Niño as he indicated the buena.Vista. “I ain’t never rode in an ann-teeek car in my entire life before!”

“Hell, yeah! Better yet: this man’s gonna take us all for a ride. He’s gonna give us a grand tour. Ain’t you, Bulldozer buddy Barnz? You ain’t gonna disappoint anyone this early in the morning, especially not us–your friends!”

“Hey, I can’t do that,” replied Barnz. He regretted now that he hadn’t altered the course of events a moment earlier.

His voice sounded strained and a bit hoarse as he spoke again. “Please. I hope you understand. But I’ve got to go now.”

“What do you mean? Why can’t you be doing what?” asked PLΔcebo. “You high on something or what? You been drinking? Naw! Not this early in the day. No buddy of mine be fooling ’round with dope or booze. I choose my friends judiciously. It’s OK, Barnz Buddy. You got no good reason to decline our modest proposal here. Let’s go for an early morning drive! Don’tcha be disappointing my good friends here.”