Clifford Simak - The Ghost of a Model T - And Other Stories

“How you been, Hank?” he asked. “Christ, it’s a long time since I seen you.”

“I’m all right,” said Hank. “I drifted up to Willow Bend and just sort of stayed there. You know Willow Bend?”

“I was through it once. Just passing through. Never stopped or nothing. Would have if I’d known you were there. I lost all track of you.”

There was something that Hank had heard about Old Virg, and felt that maybe he should mention it, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember what it was, so he couldn’t mention it.

“Things didn’t go so good for me,” said Virg. “Not what I had expected. Janet up and left me, and I took to drinking after that and lost the filling station. Then I just knocked around from one thing to another. Never could get settled. Never could latch onto anything worthwhile.”

He uncorked the bottle and had himself a drink.

“Good stuff,” he said, handing the bottle back to Hank.

Hank had a drink, then sat down on the running board alongside Virg and set the bottle down between them.

“I had a Maxwell for a while,” said Virg, “but I seem to have lost it. Forgot where I left it, and I’ve looked everywhere.”

“You don’t need your Maxwell, Virg,” said Hank. “I have got this Model T.”

“Christ, it’s lonesome here,” said Virg. “Don’t you think it’s lonesome?”

“Yes, it’s lonesome. Here, have another drink. We’ll figure what to do.”

“It ain’t good sitting here,” said Virg. “We should get out among them.”

“We’d better see how much gas we have,” said Hank. “I don’t know what’s in the tank.”

He got up and opened the front door and put his hand under the front seat, searching for the measuring stick. He found it and unscrewed the gas-tank cap. He began looking through his pockets for matches so he could make a light.

“Here,” said Virg, “don’t go lighting any matches near that tank. You’ll blow us all to hell. I got a flashlight here in my back pocket. If the damn thing’s working.”

The batteries were weak, but it made a feeble light. Hank plunged the stick into the tank, pulled it out when it hit bottom, holding his thumb on the point that marked the topside of the tank. The stick was wet almost to his thumb.

“Almost full,” said Virg. “When did you fill it last?”

“I ain’t never filled it.”

Old Virg was impressed. “That old tin lizard,” he said, “sure goes easy on the gas.”

Hank screwed the cap back on the tank, and they sat down on the running board again, and each had another drink.

“It seems to me it’s been lonesome for a long time now,” said Virg. “Awful dark and lonesome. How about you, Hank?”

“I been lonesome,” said Hank, “ever since Old Bounce up and died on me. I never did get married. Never got around to it. Bounce and me, we went everywhere together. He’d go up to Brad’s bar with me and camp out underneath a table; then, when Brad threw us out, he’d walk home with me.”

“We ain’t doing ourselves no good,” said Virg, “just sitting here and moaning. So let’s have another drink, then I’ll crank the car for you, and we’ll be on our way.”

“You don’t need to crank the car,” said Hank. “You just get into it, and it starts up by itself.”

“Well, I be damned,” said Virg. “You sure have got it trained.”

They had another drink and got into the Model T, which started up and swung out of the parking lot, heading for the road.

“Where do you think we should go?” asked Virg. “You know of any place to go?”

“No, I don’t,” said Hank. “Let the car take us where it wants to. It will know the way.”

Virg lifted the sax off the seat and asked, “Where’d this thing come from? I don’t remember you could blow a sax.”

“I never could before,” said Hank. He took the sax from Virg and put it to his lips, and it wailed in anguish, gurgled with light-heartedness.

“I be damned,” said Virg. “You do it pretty good.”

The Model T bounced merrily down the road, with its fenders flapping and the windshield jiggling, while the magneto coils mounted on the dashboard clicked and clacked and chattered. All the while, Hank kept blowing on the sax and the music came out loud and true, with startled night birds squawking and swooping down to fly across the narrow swath of light.

The Model T went clanking up the valley road and climbed the hill to come out on a ridge, running through the moonlight on a narrow, dusty road between close pasture fences, with sleepy cows watching them pass by.

“I be damned,” cried Virg, “if it isn’t just like it used to be. The two of us together, running in the moonlight. Whatever happened to us, Hank? Where did we miss out? It’s like this now, and it was like this a long, long time ago. Whatever happened to the years between? Why did there have to be any years between?”

Hank said nothing. He just kept blowing on the sax.

“We never asked for nothing much,” said Virg. “We were happy as it was. We didn’t ask for change. But the old crowd grew away from us. They got married and got steady jobs, and some of them got important. And that was the worst of all, when they got important. We were left alone. Just the two of us, just you and I, the ones who didn’t want to change. It wasn’t just being young that we were hanging on to. It was something else. It was a time that went with being young and crazy. I think we knew it somehow. And we were right, of course. It was never quite as good again.”

The Model T left the ridge and plunged down a long, steep hill, and below them they could see a massive highway, broad and many-laned, with many car lights moving on it.

“We’re coming to a freeway, Hank,” said Virg. “Maybe we should sort of veer away from it. This old Model T of yours is a good car, sure, the best there ever was, but that’s fast company down there.”

“I ain’t doing nothing to it,” said Hank. “I ain’t steering it. It is on its own. It knows what it wants to do.”

“Well, all right, what the hell,” said Virg, “we’ll ride along with it. That’s all right with me. I feel safe with it. Comfortable with it. I never felt so comfortable in all my goddamn life. Christ, I don’t know what I’d done if you hadn’t come along. Why don’t you lay down that silly sax and have a drink before I drink it all.”

So Hank laid down the sax and had a couple of drinks to make up for lost time, and by the time he handed the bottle back to Virg, the Model T had gone charging up a ramp, and they were on the freeway. It went running gaily down its lane, and it passed some cars that were far from standing still. Its fenders rattled at a more rapid rate, and the chattering of the magneto coils was like machine-gun fire.

“Boy,” said Virg admiringly, “see the old girl go. She’s got life left in her yet. Do you have any idea, Hank, where we might be going?”

“Not the least,” said Hank, picking up the sax again.

“Well, hell,” said Virg, “it don’t really matter, just so we’re on our way. There was a sign back there a ways that said Chicago. Do you think we could be headed for Chicago?”

Hank took the sax out of his mouth. “Could be,” he said. “I ain’t worried over it.”

“I ain’t worried neither,” said Old Virg. “Chicago, here we come! Just so the booze holds out. It seems to be holding out. We’ve been sucking at it regular, and it’s still better than half-full.”

“You hungry, Virg?” asked Hank.

“Hell, no,” said Virg. “Not hungry, and not sleepy, either. I never felt so good in all my life. Just so the booze holds out and this heap hangs together.”

The Model T banged and clattered, running with a pack of smooth, sleek cars that did not bang and clatter, with Hank playing on the saxophone and Old Virg waving the bottle high and yelling whenever the rattling old machine outdistanced a Lincoln or a Cadillac. The moon hung in the sky and did not seem to move. The freeway became a throughway, and the first toll booth loomed ahead.