The cab of the truck smelled like stale cigar smoke and gasoline. A Special Forces decal on the dashboard. I was starting to get real warm and fuzzy feelings about the war.
“You got a body shop you like?” he said. I could barely hear him over the hydraulic whine of the truck bed mechanism.
I had a serious gearhead friend who’d know, but I couldn’t tell a carburetor from a caribou. “I don’t get into accidents too often,” I said.
“Well, you don’t look like the kinda guy gets under the hood and changes the oil himself,” Harley said. “There’s a body shop I know,” he said. “Not too far from here. We’re good to go.”
We mostly sat there in silence while he drove. I made a couple of attempts to get a conversation started with Harley, but it was like striking a wet match.
Normally I could talk to anyone about anything-you name it, sports, kids, dogs, TV shows, whatever. I was a sales manager for one of the biggest electronics companies in the world, up there with Sony and Panasonic. The division I work for makes those big beautiful flat-panel LCD and plasma TVs and monitors that so many people lust after. Very cool products. And I’ve found that the really good sales reps, the ones who have the juice, can start a conversation with anybody. That’s me.
But this guy didn’t want to talk, and after a while I gave up. I was kind of uncomfortable sitting there in the front seat of a tow truck being chauffeured around by a Hells Angel, me in my expensive charcoal suit, trying to avoid the chewing gum, or tar, or whatever the hell it was stuck on the vinyl upholstery. I felt my rib cage, satisfied myself that nothing had broken. Not even all that painful, actually.
I found myself staring at the collection of stickers on the dashboard-the Special Forces decal, a “These Colors Don’t Run” flag decal, another one that said “Special Forces-I’m the Man Your Mother Warned You About.” After a while, I said, “This your truck?”
“Nah, my buddy owns the towing company and I help out sometimes.”
Guy was getting chatty. I said, “He Special Forces?”
A long silence. I didn’t know, were you not supposed to ask somebody if they were in the Special Forces or something? Like, he could tell me, but then he’d have to kill me?
I was about to repeat the question when he said, “We both were.”
“Huh,” I said, and we both went quiet again. He switched on the ball game. The Red Sox were playing the Seattle Mariners at Fenway Park, and it was a tight, hard-fought, low-scoring game, pretty exciting. I love listening to baseball on the radio. I have a huge flat-panel TV at home, which I got on the friends-and-family discount at work, and baseball in high-definition is awesome. But there’s nothing like a ball game on the radio-the crack of the bat, the rustling crowd, even the stupid ads for auto glass. It’s classic. The announcers sound exactly the way they did when I was a kid, and probably sound the same as when my late father was a kid. Their flat, nasal voices are like an old pair of sneakers, comfortable and familiar and broken-in. They use all the well-worn phrases like “high-fly-ball!” and “runners at the corners” and “swing and a miss.” I like the way they suddenly get loud and frenzied, shouting things like, “Way back! Way back!”
One of the announcers was commenting about the Sox pitcher, saying, “…but even at the top of his game, he’s never going to come close to the fastest recorded pitch speed of one hundred point nine miles an hour, thrown by…? Jerry, you must know that one.”
And the other guy said, “Nolan Ryan.”
“Nolan Ryan,” the first guy said, “very good. Clocked at Anaheim Stadium, August the twentieth, nineteen-seventy-four.” Probably reading off the prompter, some research fed him by a producer.
I said, “Wrong.”
The driver turned to me. “Huh?”
I said, “These guys don’t know what they’re talking about. The fastest recorded pitch was Mark Wohlers.”
“Very good,” Harley said, nodding. “Mark Wohlers. Hundred and three.”
“Right,” I said, surprised. “Hundred and three miles per hour, in nineteen-ninety-five.”
“Atlanta Braves spring training.” Then he smiled, an easy grin, his teeth even and white. “Didn’t think anyone else knew that,” he said.
“Of course, the fastest pitcher ever, not in the major leagues-”
“Steve Dalkowski,” said Harley. “Hundred and ten miles an hour.”
“Shattered an umpire’s mask,” I said, nodding. “So were you a baseball geek when you were a kid, too? Collection of thousands of baseball cards?”
He smiled again. “You got it. Those Topps gum packs with that crappy stale bubble gum inside.”
“That always stained one of the cards in the pack, right?”
He chuckled.
“Your dad take you to Fenway a lot?” I said.
“I didn’t grow up around here,” he said. “Michigan. And my dad wasn’t around. Plus we couldn’t afford to go to games.”
“We couldn’t either,” I said. “So I listened to games on the radio a lot.”
“Same here.”
“Played baseball in the backyard?” I said. “Break a lot of windows?”
“We didn’t have a backyard.”
“Me neither. My friends and I played in a park down the street.”
He nodded, smiled.
I felt like I knew the guy. We came from the same background, probably-no money, no backyard, the whole deal. Only I went to college and was sitting here in a suit, and he’d gone into the army like a lot of my high school buddies did.
We listened to the game for a bit. Seattle’s designated hitter was up. He swung at the first pitch. You could hear the crack of the bat. “And there’s a high fly ball hit deep to left field!” one of the announcers crowed. It was headed right for the glove of a great Red Sox slugger, who also happened to be a famously clumsy outfielder. And a space cadet who did things like disappear from left field, right in the middle of a game, to take a leak. When he wasn’t bobbling the ball.
“He’s got it,” said the announcer. “It’s headed right for his glove.”
“He’s going to drop it,” I said.
Harley laughed. “You said it.”
“Here it comes,” I said.
Harley laughed even louder. “This is painful,” he said.
A roar of disappointment in the ballpark. “The ball hit the back of the glove,” said the announcer, “as he tried to slide to make the play. This is a major-league error right here.”
We groaned simultaneously.
Harley switched it off. “I can’t take it anymore,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said, as we pulled into the auto body shop parking lot.
It was a kind of scuzzy place that looked like a converted gas station. WILLKIE AUTO BODY, the sign said. The manager on duty was named Abdul and probably wouldn’t have an easy time getting through airport security these days. I thought Harley would start off-loading the carcass of my poor Acura, but instead he came into the waiting room and watched Abdul take down my insurance information. I noticed another “Support Our Troops” sticker on the wall in here, too, and a Special Forces decal.
Harley said, “Jeremiah at home?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Abdul. “Sure. Home with the kids.”
“This is a friend of mine,” he said. “Make sure you guys take care of him.”
I looked around and realized the tow truck driver was talking about me.
“Of course, Kurt,” Abdul said.
“Tell Jerry I was here,” Harley said.
I read an old copy of Maxim while the tow truck driver and Abdul walked back to the shop. They returned a couple of minutes later.
“Abdul’s going to put his best master tech on your car,” Harley said. “They do good work here. Computerized paint-mixing system. Nice clean shop. Why don’t you guys finish up the paperwork, and I’ll get the car in the service bay.”