Rosey

(Two bar stools from the Amen Corner of the Willow Restaurant at their new home in Culpeper.)

It was another emotional and tumultuous day. Two of my pals have lost their dogs; there is not a great deal more emotional in life than that, so my heart goes out to them. I was all worked up over politics and the prospects for the future of the Republic, sorry, and there was a continuing sense of unease over the progress of my brother, on the road in the 57-year-old automobile.

He had flown into Pensacola on the Red Eye arriving Thursday morning. He was picked up at the airport by got Dave, the seventy-year-old car salesman who had traveled to the Panhandle coastal town thirty years before with his wife and never left. Dave had picked a car off the lot for the taxi duty when my brother called. He said: “Look for a Lexus with the numbers “$16,995” on the windshield.

Mike, the guy who sold us the car, had a box that Spike had FedExed to Ward’s Autosports the week before. He didn’t know what was in it, but it contained two aircraft-style seat belts, since the car didn’t have them. Spike tied the ends of one of them to a likely cross beam as the dealer put the temporary tag on the rear end. With the temporary Florida registration in hand, five minutes later the Cotillion Mauve station wagon was heading up the Blue Angels Parkway, and eventually to the interstate north toward Montgomery, AL.

I didn’t come into the movie until Spike called from the highway there. “Car is working great. Cruises at 70. Not too sure about the brakes, but hoping I won’t need to use them. I hope to get north of Atlanta before I sleep.”

I wished him good luck, but had the vague sense of unease the rest of the night. Friday morning I got a text informing me that he was leaving at first light, and would be seeing me at the farm that afternoon.

I looked around and realized I really should get my ass in gear. I had that box of opened liquor bottles from Willow, and the two bar stools in the back of the Panzer, and I needed to make the trip soon, since I had been driving around all week with open booze containers in the back and if I got stopped, the Police would be unlikely to look favorably on the product of the emotion and general chaos that has been my life over the last few weeks.

The trip down was uneventful except for the stop to get a piece of artwork I had commissioned, which is a habit that I am reluctant to give up, even though I will have to. Transaction complete, I was rolling down Highway 29 as my brother rolled up toward Charlotte. The phone went off, and I could hear a sense of anxiety in Spike’s voice.

“Is the car working?” I asked.

“Sort of. I am getting uneasy going up hills and something isn’t right. And the gas gauge doesn’t work.”

“Be safe,” I responded. “If you have to have a wrecker tow it up here, don’t worry about it.”

Nothing after that, until I was at the farm, which looked a little forlorn after what seemed like a month away from the place. I unloaded the Panzer, and discovered the bottle of Canadian Club had tipped over and delivered the contents onto the mat in the storage area. A clear case for Febreze, I thought, and attention to my speed until I could spray the passenger compartment.

Then I paced around, hoping I would not have to launch on a rescue mission.

The ringtone on the phone sounded and I jumped at it. It was Old Jim, calling from someplace he called “Illinois.” I promised him Las Vegas was now on the travel menu, and that his barstool was at the breakfast counter at the farm if he needed it. Checking the mail in the box, I discovered the mouse had moved back in, and made a nest with half of a notice to pick up a envelope sent “certified mail” at the post office last week.

I wondered if I was being sued again.

Then the phone went off again while I was pacing. “I am just short of a place called Staunton,” Spike said. “gassing up.” I checked Google Maps and saw it was two hours to go, if everything worked right.

I shrugged and mixed a drink. It was either going to work or not, and the die was cast. At least the vehicle was in the Old Dominion. An hour later there was another call. “Lost in Charlottesville.” We worked it out his location on the computer until he saw a sign for Rt-129 north, and I began to relax.

The last call was from the business bypass south of Culpeper. I gave him final terminal directions, freshened my drink, and walked out to wait by the mouse in the mailbox.

In a few minutes, I could see headlights coming up the little hill by Summerduck Run, and what was unquestionably a vehicle from some other time, far away.

He pulled into the gravel driveway and climbed out, leaving the engine running. “Funny it doesn’t stall now,” he said.

“Welcome to Culpeper, Brother,” I said. “That Cotillion Mauve sure looks pink.”

“Her name is Rosey,” Spike announced. “She is an interesting technical ride.”

I looked up her sleek flanks at the amazing fins. “I should certainly think so.”

Then we hugged and drove Rosey into the garage, and out of the elements.

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