Rod, Rex and Rhoda

by Bob Brill

Clunk

Something is wrong with the van. It has started to make clunking noises and it’s getting worse. We come to a town called Finville. We pull into a garage on the edge of town where two men are taking apart a car. A third person’s legs can be seen protruding from under the chassis.

We ask for service. One of the men gives a gentle kick to the boots emerging from below the car. “You got a customer here, Clyde.”

The man rolls out from under the car. He’s lying on what looks like a table top on wheels. His overalls and his face are covered with grease. He sits up. “How can I help you folks?”

I show him the van, tell him about the clunking.

He wipes his hands on a rag. He gets in the driver’s seat and starts the engine. He cocks his head to listen. “Don’t sound good,” he says. He gets out, opens the hood and does mysterious things to the innards of the vehicle. When he emerges he says, “Your transmission is just about shot. You don’t want to be driving this heap till you replace it. Might conk out on you far from any service station. Best you stay here till I can put in a new one.”

“How long to fix it and how much will it cost?”

“Hard to say. I’d have to try and find a transmission for this model. Not many of these old Chevy vans still on the road. Could take a couple of weeks to get a transmission in good shape. Maybe longer. Then once we got one, about a half a day’s work. Cost is gonna depend on the cost of the part. Certainly no less than five hundred. Labor’ll run about two hundred.”

“We got screwed on this car,” Rhoda says.

“No wonder it was so cheap.”

“You didn’t get it from Ed Simmons, did you?” says the man as he wipes the grease off his forehead.

“No, we got it in New York.”

“Well, there you are.”

“We’re going to need to talk this over.” We go sit in the van and review the options.

1) We could trust that this mechanic is not as big a crook as the guy who sold us the van and hang out in this nowhere town for no one knows how long and pay who knows what to get the van back on the road, assuming that we’ll have enough money to cover the cost.

2) We could drive out of here and pray that the van doesn’t break down a hundred miles from this or any other nowhere, but then where are we going anyway? Where would we like to be when it does break down? If it breaks down.

3) We could abandon the vehicle and hitchhike till we reach someplace better than this. But then what? None of these options deals with the bigger question of what we’re doing out here. Shouldn’t we be deciding on our long-range plan?

“Okay,” says Rhoda. “None of the above. Let’s find out if there’s a transporter station in this burg and bop out of here to someplace where we could conceivably get employment. And where they have decent bagels.”

“That has some real appeal, but then the game’s up with Rumex. They’ll find us.”

“But aren’t you tired of driving all day and eating soup and bread?”

“You know I am. Okay, let’s try your plan.”

We discover that there is a transporter station. It’s in the local funeral parlor. We don’t ask why. We enter the transporter, Rex in my arms. Destination Seattle. Rhoda inserts her credit card. A message appears on the screen. Invalid Credit Card. I try mine. Same result.

Proceed to Chapter 18...