HOM: Patchwork 3

The old Chevy street department truck was pretty well worn out long before I got behind the wheel. It only had about 20,000 miles on the odometer, but over 10,000 hours on the hour meter. I had to dump a quart of oil into that old six-cylinder every other day after an eight hour shift. I only maltreated the truck once. Every time we drove by a certain house on the East Side, a little boy of five or six would run out yelling and blast away at us with his cap guns. The last time he did it, I had gotten up a little speed & switched off the ignition so I could coast with the truck still in gear. This dumps raw gas fumes into the exhaust system. If it ignites, it is LOUD, and sometimes so violent that it can blow the mufflers apart. We coasted by his house and when the little boy ran out, Dale made a chopping motion out the side window at him, like he was shooting, and I turned the key back on. KA-WHAAAAMM! That backfire must have rattled windows for blocks. The little cowboy threw up both arms, the cap pistols went flying and he went over backwards. The last I saw of him in the mirror he was scrambling for the house on hands and knees and trailing tears. The next time we went by, all we saw of him was one big eye, peeking at us from the safety of the porch. I guess he lost his taste for playing cowboys & dump trucks. Which reminds me. We were up by the old Sportsman on First Ave East and parked in the middle of the street patching a whole network of potholes. Cars had to kind of creep around us. About the time a car was edging past me, I got a faceful of dust and sneezed. Maybe I should say I SNEEZED! Ennaway, the lady behind the wheel screamed and swerved and nearly took out a parked car, then laid a few choice words on me. That time, the guys with me thought it was funnier than I did. TBC (Me) (Blacktail Books)