Stranded Daddies

Dave Thompson turned the radio up a little as “You’re Addicted To Love” came on the station they were listening to. He heard Robert Palmer, but, in his mind’s eye, he saw the dead pan faces of the women on the video, as they held guitars and swayed enticingly. Dick Williams, his next door neighbor, and best friend, started rocking in the seat next to him as he got into the beat too.

The girls were in the back seat, dead to the world, after a soccer game that had been a real thriller. Dave looked into the rear view mirror to make sure he hadn’t made the music too loud, and wakened them. They’d played hard, and they were bushed.
Stranded Daddies

By Beating Off Bob

Dave Thompson turned the radio up a little as “You’re Addicted To Love” came on the station they were listening to. He heard Robert Palmer, but, in his mind’s eye, he saw the dead pan faces of the women on the video, as they held guitars and swayed enticingly. Dick Williams, his next door neighbor, and best friend, started rocking in the seat next to him as he got into the beat too.

The girls were in the back seat, dead to the world, after a soccer game that had been a real thriller. Dave looked into the rear view mirror to make sure he hadn’t made the music too loud, and wakened them. They’d played hard, and they were bushed.

“Man, the memories this song brings back,” said Dick, his face twisting as he mouthed the words “addicted to love”, hamming it up.

Dave was so into the music that he didn’t see the warning light on the dashboard light up. It wasn’t until he felt the car falter, that he looked down and saw the “oil” light brightly lit. He heard the rapid, staccato sound of valves, trying to work without oil, and knew it was bad already, if he could hear it over the music.

“Fuck!” he snarled, letting off of the gas. His hand flashed to the volume knob and he twisted it viciously.

“Hey!” said Dick, and then he heard the noise too. “Uh Oh,” he said, unnecessarily.

Dave pulled to the shoulder and shut it down. Even inside the cab they could both hear the crackle and pop of overheated metal, flexing in the motor compartment. He looked in the rearview mirror, to see if there was any traffic behind him, and when he didn’t see anything, he opened his door. He leaned down and pulled the hood release, groaning when smoke flowed out of the gap created by the hood popping up a few inches.

Both men stared at the engine. They could feel the heat, standing three feet away. The dip stick had burned Dave’s fingers when he tried to pull it. There was a rag in the trunk, but he didn’t want to go get it. He knew what he’d see when he pulled the stick. Nothing. He’d see nothing, where a black coating of oil should be, where the cross hatched lines lay next to the words “operating range” on the dip stick.

“Did you check the oil when we left?” asked Dick.

Dave shot him a dark look. “Of course I checked the oil. I’m not an idiot.”

“Just asking,” said Dick.

“What’s going on?” came a female voice.

Both men looked to see Denise Williams, Dick’s daughter, come from where the open hood had blocked their view of her getting out of the back seat. Both men noted her short, lush body, still in her soccer uniform. That uniform did nothing to hide her big breasts. Her dark brown hair had been let out of it’s pony tail, and fell to her shoulders in long gentle waves. She looked at the two men with startling hazel eyes, that seemed to flicker from green to blue, depending on the light. At first glance, she was stocky looking, short and wide. But a closer examination, and the right clothing, revealed that, below broad shoulders, and breasts that looked too big to be on such a short girl, there was a narrow waist, and then hips that, combined with the shoulders and breasts, were why she looked so stocky.

“Did you break the car, Uncle Dave?” she said, putting her hands on her hips. Both men stared at her. They had stared at her all through the game. Dave stared at her every time she came over to the house, to see his daughter, Cindy, who was apparently still asleep in the car. Dick, her father, had stared at her for years, unbelieving, as she turned from a little girl into a young woman any man would gawk at.

She saw the disgusted look on her “uncle’s” face, and realized he was really upset.

“How bad is it?” she asked, serious now.

“Oil,” said Dave, shortly.

“Or lack, thereof,” said Dick.

“Well, put some more in,” said Denise. “I’m hungry.”

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Dave finished unloading the trunk. He’d found two quarts of oil, amid all the sports gear, old newspapers he’d forgotten to take to the recycling point, the picnic blanket they hadn’t used in years, and one very flat spare tire. Thank goodness they didn’t need the spare.

He poured the oil in and felt arms go around his waist. His daughter had woken up as they tore the trunk apart, and had been brought up to date by her best friend. She didn’t say anything, and he knew she was just trying to make him feel better.

He put the cap back on and then got on one knee, to look under the car. He saw oil start dripping out slowly, and knew what had happened. In the parking lot, after the game, he’d tried to pull forward, through the empty slot in front of the car. He’d forgotten there was a concrete tire barrier, and his forward momentum had carried the car over it. Everyone in the car had heard the crunch and groan of metal impacting concrete, but he’d though it was just the frame.

Turned out it must have been the oil pan.

“We have to go!” he yelled. “It’s leaking out! COME ON!”

They all piled into the car and he started it. The knocking was there immediately, but he put it in gear and started forward. He wanted to go fast, to get somewhere quickly, but knew that running the motor at slower speeds would do less damage. They were in the middle of nowhere, taking what looked like a short cut on county roads … at least it looked like it on the map. He couldn’t remember if they’d seen any traffic, but he knew he hadn’t passed anybody, or been passed, for quite a while.

Dick yelled, with pent up anxiety, as he saw the sign up ahead.

“Flannery – 1 Mi” it said.

Dick grabbed the map and stuck his nose two inches from it.

“We’re on 79, right?” he asked.

Dave nodded, but kept his eyes on the road.

“I don’t see anyplace called Flannery on the map,” said Dick.

The knocking intensified, and took on a deeper tone.

“It had better fucking be there,” snarled Dave.

“Now Daddy!” came Cindy’s voice, chiding him for cursing. He ignored her.

There was a silo ahead, and a small cluster of buildings. A faded sign said “Flannery – unincorporated”, and then there was a railroad crossing sign, and then there was Flannery, which was composed of the grain elevator and seven other buildings. One was a gas station. Dave more or less aimed the car there and winced as he heard things begin to rattle under the hood. As if the motor knew it had done it’s job … had gotten them to civilization … it gasped its last and died with a series of jerks and shimmies that shook the whole car.

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A man in overalls came lumbering toward the group. He had on a ball cap that, at one time, had been red, but was now an indeterminate maroon color, due mostly to grease that had almost covered up the red. He had a rag in one hand, which was also greasy. He used that rag to wipe his hands, frequently. An observer might have noticed that, sometimes, the rag got grease on his hands, instead of cleaning them.

“You folks having some trouble?” he asked. He waved his hand in front of his face to blow away the smoke and fumes that were billowing from under the hood of the car.

“I think I hit something and put a hole in the oil pan,” said Dave.

“Hmmmmm” said the man. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

Dave looked at Dick, who shrugged, as if to say “Well … he’s right.”

“Is there a mechanic around here?” asked Dave.

“That would be me,” said the man. “Howdy, I’m Jimmy Joe.” He stuck out his hand, which was covered in grease.

Dave took it anyway. In a place this small, there couldn’t possibly be more than one mechanic, and he didn’t want to get off to a bad start with this one.