To this day, Davey
seriously doubts the validity of Grundge's claim as to improper weld
placement on those stupid frames.On the coattails of that
revelation, it sheds light upon what can only be assumed was a
brilliant move on the part of Grundge to push Davey out the
door.Then, once Davey was gone from Smedco, Grundge could throw a
party. The frames would be placed back in the assembly line, receive
their requisite doo-hickeys, the drill presses would continue to hum
and drone throughout the days, and Grundge would have to sharpen
friggin' drill bits by his lonesome.
But that would be the
least of Grundge's worries; let's keep in mind what Smedco was
manufacturing. For starters, though Smedco's equipment offerings were
made of actual metal, they were still all MANUAL tools, and in many
cases, clunky to boot.Davey sneered with vindictiveness and
cheered with poetic justice when commercial and consumer grade food
processing gadgets hit the markets. Names like Cuisinart®,
Kitchen Aid®, and a host of equally capable competitors cemented
their niche with food prep and we can be reasonably certain this also
put Smedco at a distinct disadvantage.Davey had secretly
hoped they went buns-up.
Did Smedco perish?
Don’t perish the thought.
Their future nightmarish
the farm they had bought!
Their moniker garish,
with silliness wrought,
not bullish but bearish
with no market sought.
Of course Davey didn’t stick around to find out. He was on to smaller and
Now, then,[not sure if a comma is necessary or just plain redundant in this
particular application], if memory once again swerves back into that abysmal
abyss of ethanol-laced ignorance, it seems Davey was ripe for yet another
upheaval, this time coming in the form of some rather ill-advised drifting.That meant no workie, Hoss.
Now it seems that since this drift
was Davey’s new paradigm shift,
it would only stand to reason
that before the winter season
when his ass would be freezin’
he should SHIFT.
Tucked somewhere in the mix
was an entirely new Davey bag o’ tricks.
Yes, he trickedan old friend named Reneeinto letting him bunk and stayat her rented place
where he could save face
with Renee and her partner so gay.
Some partner. A real piece of work,
and quite frankly a JERK.
Her name was ‘Silver’,
but Davey needed no tutor
to call Siver ‘Pewter’.
Privacy? 'What friggin' privacy?' The beleaguered reader may
query. After all, the infamous Mark Zuckerberg infamously stated that privacy – a concept that used to actually MEAN
something – was now a JOKE.
Yes, indeed, he is correct, we may detect, but some steps can be taken to think
outside the box and at least keep the
creepiest of the cretins OUT of our boxes.
Our personal lives all contain details that cretins would love to get their
scurrilous mitts on; any tiny little clues as to our whereabouts on
such-and-such a date, who we were with, or where we were employed.
As infuriating as it is, the most seemingly innocent
snippets of one's personal life can yield a trove of data for phishers, data
miners and other trolls with nothing but time on their hands, ads to sell and
pockets to line.
So that's FINE! Here you go, trolls: DINE!
As a matter of course, Davey stayed up most nights but couldn't sleep during
the day (quite understandably) whilst bunking at Renee & Pewter's shopworn
pad. Never mind the good time he had.
It is worth noting that Davey carried no credit cards, owned no cell phone, and
farted a lot.
Keenly aware that snoopers, data miners, phishers, spammers
and trolls of multifarious stripes may well be perusing each 100 words he
mirthfully churns out, Davey hereby interjects the following tidbits for the
benefit of data collecting entities interested in flooding his screen with ads
or selling him V*iagra, soap, toilet paper, e-cigs, “Christian” singles or fake
Let's speculate (not quite remembering) that Pewter took pictures of sex organs
and liked to fart in the bathtub, among other things. She might have preferred
Backgammon over checkers, despite her checkered past; any contact with males
made her frown pretty fast.
And true to form, Pewter tarnished easily. So maybe that
meant, believe it or not, that she really WAS silver after all.
But her persona certainly didn't indicate that such was the case.
In the grand scheme of things, she and her mate just maintained the place.
Railing on regarding Pewter: she had a gruff exterior that didn't conceal any
kind of soft heartedness inside. In fact, what you saw was what you got: a
whole bunch of negativity on the spot.
Interaction with Pewter was a bit like coming in contact with an inexplicably
angry, vindictive convenience store clerk
whose menacing eyes followed you as you trolled the aisles,
famished as all get-out, then once you had selected your items and shuffled to
the counter proceeded to tear you a supplemental cloaca.
Yes, Pewter just RADIATED misery and you, yes, YOU – or any other sucker in the
immediate vicinity for that matter – could be the nearest target to spout on.
Her existence seemed to say “my life sucked, so
YOURS is going to suck.”
Davey took it in stride for the most part, knuckling under, not returning fire.
After all, he didn't want his squatting opportunity to soon expire.
Davey had more drifting to do, and it was best to retain a
modest base of operations to discharge that non-responsibility.
Painting Renee's apartment, after all, didn't fall under the heading of
'Davey's responsibility', but now, here, in retrospect – or any 'spect' for
that matter – perhaps he should have been more on top of that paint slappin'
and applied due diligence to make it happen. Or, barring that, at least put in
a half-assed effort and cut out the crappin' To his great discredit, Davey
still carried that 'skate' attitude and loathing of management so well honed
from prior experiences.
in what could be considered 'normal' blue collar workplaces.
Hence, here in the Renee/Pewter paint slappin' setting, he was, inadvertently
or intentionally, slackin' on his friend and former colleague.
Renee couldn't let that go.
Davey had no dough
she would let him know
thus had come the time
to pardon the rhyme
that maybe it was time
This would come as a bit of a relief for the didactically drifting Davey, who,
having thus rightly blown Renee's joint,
could at this point
set out for parts unknown.
Ahh, yes – the not so great 'unknown'!
Next, Davey should enter here
an automobile that was so dear
or should have been, that much is clear:
'twas a sprightly Plymouth Belvedere!
Now it seems this frumpy but friendly set of wheels was left out of the
equation, having been, if memory once again swerves, in service during Davey's
tenure at Renee & Pewter's fine place of purveyance.
It seems that Davey's friend John Akatan had offered the Belvedere up for sale,
asking the princely sum of $300.00.
Davey, of course, was interested, and began hammering home the bargaining
process, settling on an offer of $270.
Completed deal, yes, but no tire squeal.
Though, you all know – or should – that car was a STEAL!
She was probably a '69 or so, with graceful feminine curves along the sides and rear
quarter panels, and sported the old stalwart Chrysler 'slant six' under the hood
[of unknown displacement].
This engine class was among the most rugged and long-lived of any American
models ever made. Davey didn't know this at the time, and didn't perform much
maintenance on the poor Belvedere.Chalk up this lack of proper care to
indolence and ignorance.
But ultimately, you’ll see that was OKAY.
As Davey would read in a remarkable small town paper article
much later [long after he had lost the car], the old slant six allegedly could
run with little or no coolant and ancient oil and still not die.
Fans of these remarkable engines had formed alliances of delighted and
satisfied owners, the most notable being the 'Slant Six Club of America', which
thrives to this day.
And man, didn't this old dusky tan Belvederehave one hell of a story to tell
It may ramble a bit, but have no fear;
the cast of characters stands out clear.
When Davey settled on the Belvedere for that incredibly
cheap sum of $270, he had effectively depleted his supply of liquid assets and
had to scrounge for whatever employment he could sop up. This meant returning
to one of his old standby occupations: washing dishes.
That was an easy job to get, after all. Any greasy spoon worth its salt could
not operate without suds slingers; that always has been a given.
Davey found himself employed as a suds-slinger at on H.A. Winston's – one of
those cheesy theme restaurants – and could be found nearly ass-deep in dishes
on busy weekends.
Those insanely busy nights contained, the only hours Davey
was able to nail down with any consistency. Anyone with seniority or any kind
of pull could handily avoid getting their mitts greasy during those times, and
might even be spotted merrymaking with other imbibers out in the lounge or at
the noisy bar.
So Davey put up with having his bread – and FACE buttered on the grueling
Friday and Saturday night shifts.
Becoming increasingly frustrated with the mounds of uneaten food scraped off
the disgusting plates and flatware, Davey once again took to drinking as the
frustration turned to rage;
this grease-clogged rage in turn motivating him to raid the
He grabbed the first bottles within reach: a couple of those immediately
recognizable oval vessels of Manischewitz.
Sucking the acrid purple fluid down with a voracious rapidity, Davey waxed
delighted that soon he would swoon and be booz'ly excited.
The dishes came fast and furiousthat Saturday nightas patrons noisily
socializedand drank themselvesinto stupefied delight.
Davey was again enraged by the lack of assistance, this dish station being a
two person operation.
But that was okay; being drunk meant grease could slide off much easier.
Hobbling out to the parking lot near midnight, Davey started
up the trusty Belvedere, popped her into gear [utilizing the oh, so familiar
'three on the tree' shifter, you hear]?, and headed north on the usual Fault
Road. Nearing the light at Fault & Beale, the Belvedere unexpectedly
sputtered, with some rather curious red lights accompanying the sputter,
leading Davey to mutter.
Being on a slope meant she had just enough momentum to ease onto a side street
of the Fairplain neighborhood.
A crank of the starter.
Then another and another.
No go, Joe; so time to call your mother?
Davey, now faced with the prospect of being without wheels,
was extremely pissed at this point and would need to leave Belvie in front of
someone else's joint.
Spewing expletives along with spittle from his ethanol-parched lips, he pulled,
with angry fingertips, an empty beer bottle from the backseat and hurled it
against the Belvedere with all his might.
After what seemed like far more than 3 seconds later, Davey heard the clink and
bash of the bottle smash on a property about fifty feet behind him! From that
point on, this phenomenon would be known as the 'Belvedere Bounce'.
Davey's utter amazement thus far,no discernible dents were left
on the car!Chalked up hence as just one more testimonyto her
rugged construction!That much was one cogent deduction.But
wait – the night wasn't over yet. Davey, while still fuming from
things not going well and his unfavorable reactions to that fact,
decided to go on a mini rampage to let off steam, and thus started
walking to vent, being so mendaciously hell bentUp three blocks
on the left, he came upon a high school acquaintance's big fat
station wagon and decided to somehow vandalize it.
would of course fall under the heading of 'highly irrational act',
but when was rationality ever in the least present when an ethanol
sopper was so sopped? And let's not forgive the ancillary toxins in
cheap wine that can make one's internal circuits go even more
haywire.So in short, some lingering resentments remained in
Davey's deranged mind that night, and he felt compelled to act on
them and create a blight, so he popped the fellow's gas cap and
urinated profusely into the tank.Maybe he poured some stale beer in
also.Hah! The more trouble, the merrier.
that part was done.Now to have some more 'fun'.The trek to Davey's
temporary accommodations at his parents' dank abode would take a
while,so he kept truckin' and cracked a devious smile.Aha!
Next up came another smoldering resentment against a resident who had
chewed Davey out for riding a bike across the fellow's lawn years
back.Revenge.Time to take a crack.Davey grabbed some
rocks and lobbed them onto the person's roof.After several hit
their mark, lights came on at the house just as Davey was falling on
his ass after losing his balance.
– he couldn't even throw rocks properly! This in and of itself
brought an upsurge in the growing sense of failure Davey was
carrying.“Are you touched in the head!?” Came a voice
from his target. Davey heard it oh, so clearly, and realized that
yes, he was 'touched' in the head, and dearly.This could have
been considered a turning point, yet another watershed moment in
Davey's non-evolution from drunken ne'er do well to functional member
of society.He mulled this self-imposed query over and over in what
was left of his mind: 'hey, what TF am I doing?'
moment or no,Davey certainly should knowthat in this
miserable throehe should let the ethanol GO.Yeah, it was
WATER, alright; it seems that after crashing heavily that monstrous
night, Davey got up and pissed on the floor in his sleep. It was a
giant puddle, and despite his disbelief and protestations to the
contrary, said puddle could not have gotten where it was any other
way.After returning in the daylight (albeit with a vicious,
toxin-laden hangover) to put gas in the Belvedere, Davey pondered the
options: keep her or ditch her. No choice was clear.
she came with few options; manual trans, no a/c, no bucket seats,
no-frills am/fm radio, rock-hard dashboard, dry-rotting headboard and
a gas gauge that didn't work.And on the coattails of that
revelation, the gas filler was in the rear directly under the license
plate, which meant that not only would it spill out if you forgot to
replace the cap, but was also a piece of cake to siphon. This
may well have played a role in her running out of gas that horrid
night: mischievous miscreants could easily have sucked her lifeblood
before Davey got off work.
bad design of gasoline filler placement could bode poorly in terms of
safety as well. Ralph Nader, you missed one!Say, for the sake of
conjecture, the operator overfilled the gas tank on the Belvedere.
Then, if the cap wasn't replaced – and snugly – one could leave
a trail of fresh gasoline when pulling forward. And what if the car
got rear-ended by an overzealous tailgater? Disaster could
await.But minor quirks aside, you couldn't find a better,
more reliable American car in those days. And you didn't have to
specifically have a Belvedere; the Dodge Dart was equally stalwart.
all the unrelated factoids in this rambling quixotic so-called essay,
the most prominent would be positing that Slant Six clubbers knew
better than anyone that one needn't have a Belvedere to get at the
old slant six.But you don't need to know that, dear
readers.Moving on – and back to that storied near and dear
tan Belvedere that still had a story so clear: Davey was coming up on
another transitional phase of drift-ology.The 'keep it or ditch
it' paradigm continued to percolate in his mottled mind, and had
quite frankly become a pain in the behind.
the problem became one of objects: what to do with that box of Guitar
Player magazines, Nylon® guitar picks, assorted frumpy clothes, and
little else of value – all residing in the Belvedere's surprisingly
spacious trunk. Sure, it wasn't much, but was all Davey had. And at
this point, having left Renee's joint, he would tenaciously cling to
these earthly accoutrements as if they actually DID have value.So
aside from that wondering and worrying, Davey had bigger fish to fry;
he was eating at McDonald's a lot and therefore being routinely
malnourished. In fact, he felt an internal ROT.
enough, Davey also became increasingly paranoid and thought people
were following him as he limped along suburban streets in the
Belvedere,Heaven forbid it would be a police car, even though Davey
wasn't doing anything much that could be considered illegal; he
usually could refrain from driving drunk.No, that would happen
later on, after he parked, sometimes sleeping in the backseat for
lack of a better place.He began to acquire quirks also. One
of them was an almost pathological abhorrence toward what he called
'pack driving'.He stupidly scrawled these sentiments on the
bumper sticker-friendly Belvedere trunk.
seemed that more and more people were hugging Davey's bumper as he
crawled through suburban streets en route to just about nowhere. And
they all seemed to be in such a friggin' hurry.So when Davey
noticed he was in a detestable pack of cars – through no fault of
his own – he would pull over and let the pack drivers pass, feeling
righteously vindictive in his contempt for the others' driving habit
patterns.And that's EXACTLY what they were: habits.Or should
we say ROBOTS?If all that followed were not lost,their
heads were hollowed,and headlights tossed.