One New Car, 17 wrecks, and a possible Mercy Killing, Part 2

Part 2. 

I arrived at my brother’s house and when I did, my brother asked me where in the hell I’d been. Apparently my Dad had already called asking if I was there yet. I guess after I cleared the driveway he must have realized that his middle kid, the one with the impractical car that drag raced on the weekends after his football games, was driving his brand new car that he just took delivery of. Now I’d have rather died than hurt my Dad or Mom, their property, their home, and especially their good name. I called my dad and like the smart suck-up I had developed into told him his car was running fine, no scratches and all was well. My brother and I sat in the new car and checked out all the options, rolling the power windows up and down, moving the power seats back and forth and making the cool stereo sing at its limits, it’s eight track blasting loud enough for my brothers neighbors walk outside to see where all the commotion was coming from. It should be known that my brother owned a house at a very young age and he was the neighbor every one did not want. He had a wicked home stereo and a huge set of speakers, worked second shift and usually had a visit or two weekly from the local police because of the excess noise. He had long hair, dressed like a rock star and had weird friends. He was my brother, I loved him and accepted him the  way he was. He was a shitty neighbor and I have always prayed I wouldn't end up with a neighbor like him when I got older, but that’s really not important right now and not germane to this story.

Upon arrival, I pulled behind the car of one of his scumbag friends, Art, a dude that had a future. A future in the Federal Penal System being the “wide receiver” on the prison football team, if you catch my drift. I didn't like his ass, and I was not in the minority. My circle of friends had a hit-list of people that we considered a waste of skin and Art was at the top of every friend I had, and most friends he had, lists. He was the kind of guy that would get your home phone number, disappear, and months later you’d get phone bills in the thousands. My brother was victim to Art’s phone call theft ring and I remember seeing the life leaving his body when my brother was choking the very life out of him for the offense. He stopped just before Art gave up the ghost and at my suggestion, taking Art’s one and only prized possession, a Gibson Les Paul three pick-up Custom model. Art started to protest but relented when my brother verbally dove on him like a wolf on a steak, literally with his hands around Art’s neck. I persuaded my brother to not kill him and even suggested the guitar swap as collateral for the future repayment of the enormous phone bill Art had run up on my brother’s  home number. I knew to watch Art and never, ever trust him. And besides, my brother was not an athlete, so the prison football team was not an option and killing even a worthless human, like Art, would land him there.

After we’d all got a good look at my Dad’s new car we all walked back into my brother’s house and as soon as we cleared the door, Art suggested that  he go to the store and pick us up a six-pack of cold beer. I was game for a cold brewski and I could cover up the smell with a stick of chewing game. Of course, my brother gave Art ten bucks to get the beer and he said he’d be right back, a convenience store just one mile up the road from my brother’s humble abode. I told Art I’d have to move my dad’s new ride so he could get out and Art stated clearly that he’d move the car. I told him he’d better not even fart in the front seat of my Dad’s new ride or I’d personally take pleasure in ending his worthless existence, completing the task first begun by my brother after he’d milked my brother for the phone bill. My brother and I were still in the house when we heard what we thought was Art, in his car, leaving for the short trip to buy us a cold six. Fifteen minutes passed and I told my brother that I’d better get myself and our dad’s new set of wheels back home. He followed me out the door and to my horror, Art had taken my Dad’s car, sans permission from me, and he had been gone way too long. 


I was at first furious and fully prepared to end the life of the same no good rotten bastard that had done my brother and numerous others wrong. I would be doing society a favor and save the prison system the money it would take to incarcerate him. Minutes turned into hours and I finally had to call my dad and lay the bitter truth in front of him. His brand new car that he trusted me with, purchased that very day, was now being driven by a worthless human being that I had somehow allowed behind the wheel of his new car. My sincere sorrow for his car missing was only exceeded by my anger at my brother for allowing me to convince him not to kill Art earlier that same year. I asked my dad to please stay calm and he was, his Marine Corps training and his “Government Voice” in full view and aimed at me and me only. He asked if we thought he should come over to my brother’s house and I immediately said “NO!”. I needed the time to gather myself for the onslaught that was to come when I did get home, and besides, my dad had traded his car in on the newer car that day.  When my brother got me back to my house he practically power slid in front of my parents house kicking me out of the passenger door, and in one fell swoop floor boarded his car and hauled ass back to freedom. I so wanted to be with him, in his trunk, holding onto the roof of his car, anywhere but at home. I walked the last few feet to my parents front door and when I cleared the door sill my parents were sitting, quietly, on the sofa in our living room. My dad said one word:

“Explain”

I told him the entire story and it was the truth. My brother called from the safety of his house and corroborated everything I had said concerning the fifteen minutes I was at his house with my dads car. My dad calmly said “OK, son, I’ll take it from here”.  Damn, I would have much rather had the shit beaten out of me or tied behind my mom’s car and dragged around for a few miles. I went to my room, shut the door, and prayed in earnest for the very first time in my 16 years walking the planet. I heard my dad talking to the sheriff’s office when I accidentally picked up the phone in the back of our house. I placed my hand over the “Talk” end and listened as my father gave the details to the officer on the other end of the phone, my dad matching the officers dry talk with the mastery of a Marine Corps drill instructor. He hung the phone up and said “Jim, you can hang up now” making me feel worse than I had ever felt in life. I was going to kill that no good lying thieving worthless pile of dog shit as soon as he showed back up.

The police finally caught up with Art in south Florida after he had wrecked into no less than 17 cars over the ten days he decided to disappear with a new car that he didn’t own. The police took Art into custody and he did a sweet piece of time for that stunt, his final mistake was saying that I had given him permission to take my dad’s car. When I heard that I asked my dad to please let Art off and I’d go to south Florida and pick him up, transporting him back to my beloved Georgia. When the judge told Art that, he asked if he could just do time there in the quiet jail where he had been caught. I made sure Art knew that if I ever saw him again, I would finish the job my brother had started. The difference was that this time I would be an expert in CPR, just so I could kill him, revive him, and kill him just one more time to make sure it took.

We were waiting at the dealership when my dad’s formerly new car was delivered back to the dealership. It had 1700 miles on the odometer, cigarette burns in the seats and headliner, the speakers that delivered the wicked stereophonic sound were all blown from excess volume, carpets were stained with bright red Georgia Clay and every corner and edge on the exterior was either dented, crushed, slammed, scraped and generally knocked out, or in, opposite of where it began life a few short days earlier. The motor was smoking and the transmission was slipping from the abuse Art had dealt the Police car. It was a pitiful sight to see and my dad made sure I was there to see it when it was delivered to the body shop of the dealership.  It was obvious the guys that worked there knew the entire story and most looked at me like I had shot the Pope, and being a Catholic was the number one hiring requirement for a job there. I quickly realized explaining my side of it was useless and I was mature enough to know that any words from me would sound like a lame excuse, so I just kept my cake-hole shut and my eyes forward. My dad’s insurance company had to pay for every car that Art hit and the damages were, to say the least, extreme. My dad asked his insurance company to total out his new car but they refused, insisting they could fix the car like new. It took a month for my dad to get his car back and it was never the same. It had problems and spent a number weeks back and forth in the shop getting sorted out.

I saw Art maybe six years later when I was in college when I was staying at my brother's house while home visiting from School. I was asleep on his couch when I heard the doorbell ring at 5:45 in the morning. I was out the night before until late and when I opened the door I was met by one who looked like Ted Kazinsky, also know as the “Uni-bomber”. He said cheerfully with terror filled eyes remembering my last promise of homicide if I ever laid eyes one his worthless carcass again;

“Hi, Jim, how’s it going…is George home?”

I looked at him and all the tired left my body in a split second. My last words of mercy to Art was “I’m gonna close this door and count to five and I’d better see your worthless ass clearing the trees when I open the door or I will kill you dead” I shut the door and counted to three, cheating Art out of two counts, the incident involving my dad’s car rushing back. When I snatched the door open with “Three” leaving my lips, Art was indeed gone, I saw the bottom of his shoes as he ran for his life.

I promised the world that I was going to give it a mercy killing if I ever saw him again, making it a better place to live.