“I told you to get that damned junk out of the shed!” Raindrops began to fall over the dry property. “You’re lucky it’s raining, mother-fricking-nature just bought you another day to get this garbage out of here before I burn this rickety piece of crap to the ground.” The considerable man stomped away through the mud, “if this isn’t out by the time I get home tomorrow, it goes up with the rest of the scrap!”
The boy looked solemnly at the pile of parts in the bed of the little LUV. His LUV. A summer of mowing lawns and delivering papers had generated a paltry sum to purchase the shell of a truck, along with a pile of parts that was supposed to make it whole again. Little by little, each day after school, the boy began to re-form the boxes and pallets of grimy parts back into something resembling a pickup truck. An axle crawled its way back under the frame. Seats slithered back into the cab. Front suspension was beaten into compliance. Wheels lifted the frame up off the damp dirt floor.
But there was still so much to be done. A cylinder head was nowhere to be found, permitting the leaky roof to fill the little cylinders with water. The transmission was hopelessly seized in 2nd gear. None of the tires held air. And yet, the boy was determined. A muffler, a spare tire, a battered hood were slid behind the house next to the wood pile. Chrome bumpers were wrapped in potato sacks and lowered into the root cellar. The delicate, aging dash and door panels were carefully and painstakingly hoisted up to the barn’s hayloft, the fragile parts now properly shielded from the elements.
Arrangements were made at the schoolhouse the next day to have the truck dragged out by the neighbor’s Allis-Chalmers, only 2 miles down the dirt road. The boy’s home was early on the rural bus route; he calculated three hours before he had to worry about the sound of his father’s tires rolling down the gravel drive. Plenty of time, the boy continued to remind himself. Plenty of time to salvage a dream.
The already slow bus seemed slower that day, struggling up every hill in the countryside. The boy continued to nervously glance at his watch, constantly calculating the task at hand. Finally, the bus made its belabored climb up the last hill to his house.
The boy’s heart sank, tears welled up in his eyes as smoke came into view. Fresh tire tracks and a brown Impala in the drive only confirmed the boy’s worst possible scenario.
His father had arrived home from work early. Burn day, the shed alight with manmade flame.
The boy ran down the pockmarked driveway, screaming, crying, trying to deny reality. Then he saw the LUV, its little remaining paint blackening and bubbling in the heat. The meager amount of fuel left in the tank had vaporized and was spitting flames out of the filler neck. The fire had spread to the interior, the vinyl seats melting away until the foam below caught fire.
The boy was paralyzed, struck with awe, confusion, and anger. The heavy oak beam finally fell from the ceiling, crushing the truck’s roof under its immense weight as tears streamed down his face. His labors, his efforts, his dreams, no longer recognizable in the raging inferno.
The father marched over to the inconsolable boy,
“I’m doing you a favor, son. Now start pumping water to put out the coals when this thing is done.”
Burnt Clutches 