Джек Кейди: The Night We Buried Road Dog

Ringling Bros. Barnum and Toothpaste

I didn’t figure anything, Road Dog stood in my imagination as the heart and soul of Highway 2. When night was deep and engines blazed, I could hang over the wheel and run down that tunnel of two-lane into the night.

The nighttime road is different than any other thing. Ghosts rise around the metal crosses, and ghosts hitchhike along the wide berm. All the mysteries of the world seem normal after dark. If imagination shows dead thumbs aching for a ride, those dead folk only prove the hot and spermy goodness of life. I’d overtake some taillights, grab the other lane, and blow doors off some party-goer who tried to stay out of the ditches. A man can sing and cuss and pray. The miles fill with dreams of power, and women, and happy, happy times.

Road Dog seemed part of that romance. He was the very soul of mystery, a guy who looked at the dark heart of the road and still flew free enough to make jokes and write that fine hand.

In daytime it was different, though. When I saw Road Dog signed in on the wall of that can, it just seemed like a real bad sign.

The guy who owned the bar had seen no one. He claimed he’d been in the back room putting bottles in his cold case. The Dog had come and gone like a spirit.

Jesse and I stood in the parking lot outside the bar. Sunlight lay earthy and hot across the new crops. A little puff of dust rose from a side road. It advanced real slow, so you could tell it was a farm tractor. All around us meadowlarks and tanagers were whooping it up.

“We’ll likely pass him,” Jesse said, “if we crowd a little.” Jesse pretended he didn’t care, but anyone would. We loaded the dogs, and even hung the hubcaps back up where we got them, because it was what a gentleman would do. The DeSoto acted as eager as any DeSoto could. We pushed the top end, which was eighty-nine, and maybe ninety-two downhill. At that speed, brakes don’t give you much, so you’d better trust your steering and your tires.

If we passed The Dog we didn’t know it. He might have parked in one of the towns, and of course we dropped a lot of revs passing through towns, that being neighborly. What with a little loafing, some pee stops, and general fooling around, we did not hit Minneapolis until a little after midnight. When we checked into a motel on the strip, Potato was sleepy and grumpy. Chip looked relieved.

“Don’t fall in love with that bed,” Jesse told me. “Some damn salesman is out there waitin’ to do us in. It pays to start early.”

Car shopping with Jesse turned out as fascinating as anybody could expect. At 7:00 a.m. we cruised the lots. Cars stood in silent rows like advertising men lined up for group pictures. It being Minneapolis, we saw a lot of high-priced iron. Cadillacs and Packards and Lincolns sat beside Buick convertibles, hemi Chryslers, and Corvettes (“Nice Cars,” Jesse said about the Corvettes, “but no room to ’em. You couldn’t carry more than one sack of feed.”). Hudsons and Studebakers hunched along the back rows. On one lot was something called “Classic Lane.” A Model A stood beside a ’37 International pickup. A ’29 Cord sat like a tombstone, which it was, because it had no engine. But, glory be, beside the Cord nestled a ’39 LaSalle coupe just sparkling with threat. That LaSalle might have snookered Jesse, except something highly talented sat buried deep in the lot.

It was the last of the fast and elegant Lincolns, a ’54 coupe as snarly as any man could want. The ’53 model had taken the Mexican Road Race. The ’54 was a refinement. After that the marque went downhill. It started building cars for businessmen and rich grannies.

Jesse walked round and round the Lincoln, which looked like it was used to being cherished. Matchless and scratchless, it was a little less than fire-engine red, with a white roof and a grille that could shrug off a cow. That Linc was a solid set of fixings. Jesse got soft lights in his eyes. This was no Miss Molly, but this was Miss somebody. There were a lot of crap crates running out there, but this Linc wasn’t one of them.

“You prob’ly can’t even get parts for the damn thing,” Jesse murmured, and you could tell he was already scrapping with a salesman. He turned his back on the Lincoln. “We’ll catch a bite to eat,” he said. “This may take a couple days.”

I felt sort of bubbly. “The Dog ain’t gonna like this,” I told Jesse.

“The Dog is gonna love it,” he said. “Me and The Dog knows that road.”

By the time the car lots opened at 9:00 a.m., Jesse had a trader’s light in his eyes. About all that needs saying is that never before or since did I ever see a used-car salesman cry.

The poor fellow never had a chance. He stood in his car lot most of the day while me and Jesse went through every car lot on the strip. We waved to him from a sweet little ’57 Cad, and we cruised past real smooth in a mama-san ’56 Imperial. We kicked tires on anything sturdy while he was watching, and we never even got to his lot until fifteen minutes before closing. Jesse and I climbed from my DeSoto. Potato and Chip tailed after us.

“I always know when I get to Minneapolis,” Jesse said to me, but loud enough the salesman could just about hear. “My woman wants to lay a farmer, and my dogs start pukin’.” When we got within easy hearing range, Jesse’s voice got humble. “I expect this fella can help a cowboy in a fix.”

I followed, experiencing considerable admiration. In two sentences, Jesse had his man confused.

Potato was dumb enough that he trotted right up to the Lincoln. Chip sat and panted, pretending indifference. Then he ambled over to a ragged-out Pontiac and peed on the tire. “I must be missing something,”

Jesse said to the salesman, “because that dog has himself a dandy nose.”

He looked at the Pontiac. “This thing got an engine?”

We all conversed for the best part of an hour. Jesse refused to even look at the Lincoln. He sounded real serious about the LaSalle, to the point of running it around a couple of blocks. It was a darling. It had ceramic-covered manifolds to protect against heat and rust. It packed a long-stroke V-8 with enough torque to bite rubber in second gear. My DeSoto was a pretty thing, but until that LaSalle I never realized that my car was a total pussycat. When we left the lot, the salesman looked sad. He was late for supper.

“Stay with what you’ve got,” Jesse told me as he climbed in my DeSoto. “The clock has run out on that LaSalle. Let a collector have it. I hate it when something good dies for lack of parts.”

I wondered if he was thinking of Miss Molly.

“Because,” Jesse said, and kicked the tire on a silly little Volkswagen, “the great, good cars are dying. I blame it on the Germans.”

Next day we bought the Lincoln and made the salesman feel like one proud pup. He figured he foisted something off on Jesse that Jesse didn’t want. He was so stuck on himself that be forgot that he had asked a thousand dollars, and come away with $550. He even forgot that his eyes were swollen, and that maybe he crapped his pants.

We went for a test drive, but only after Jesse and I crawled around under the Linc. A little body lead lumped in the left rear fender, but the front end stood sound. Nobody had pumped any sawdust into the differential. We found no water in the oil, or oil in the water. The salesman stood around, admiring his shoeshine. He was one of those easterners who can’t help talking down to people, especially when he’s trying to be nice. I swear he wore a white tie with little red ducks on it. That Minnesota sunlight made his red hair blond and his face pop with freckles.

Jesse drove real quiet until he found an interesting stretch of road. The salesman sat beside him. Me and Potato and Chip hunkered in the backseat. Chip looked sort of nauseated, but Potato was pretty happy.