Red Volkswagen

After many months, another story.

When you work retail you meet interesting people, and you don’t even need to go looking for them, they come to you. Some of these interesting folks are co-workers, people you can’t escape from with a smile and short apology when they demand a piece of you. I work as a stock boy at my local grocery store in a small town nestled in the folds of the Berkshire Hills, our little hamlet stuck in the year 1955, a situation granting me my own place in the Twilight Zone. Hell, I’m sure Rod Sterling will make a visit to my store one of these days.

One day a co-worker of mine who goes by the self-inflicted moniker “The Koon” decided to talk with me while I shelved baked goods. The Koon and I met a few months ago when he got hired to the meat department, introducing himself and his name with pomp and circumstance. At first I thought Koon joked with me, the man being as white as they come and one bed sheet away from dancing around a burning cross; I figured he was being ironic.

I gave the Koon too much credit, the man was dead serious. He wasn’t aware, as far as I could tell, of the meaning behind his chosen name, and neither I nor anyone else in the store had the heart or courage to enlighten the man. So here I was in the baked goods aisle with a gaunt, lanky figure wearing a white butcher’s coat two sizes too large. Blood stains covered his outfit complimenting the slow look in his face, missing teeth, and bulging eyes. Koon is a man straight out of Deliverance, now all he needs is a banjo.

Koon of all of my co-workers always took a front row seat in the parade of interesting people, being a rather sociable guy for a man of his breeding. You see the Koon was born of special stock, a descendant of intrepid settlers who left the relative safety of early colonial settlements to carve out a place for themselves in the wilderness of Appalachia. This vanguard of settlers labored to achieve the American Dream before there was even an America. Koon is the result of centuries of inbreeding, his ancestors insulated themselves from the halls of civilization, venturing west as men and sending back men like Koon as their legacy. Koon hob knobbed among the civilized folk of New England smug in his own superiority over the lesser races of men, in particular people soft from the creature comforts of modern life. This intrepid vanguard greeted me in his usual manner.

He said, “Hey Isaac, wanna see my meat?”

My concentration broken by the interruption, I looked up from my work to find Koon’s crotch inches from my head. I backed up and stood as far back from Koon as I could, responding, “Keep your junk out of my face Koon.”

Koon said, “Hey guy be cool, don’t go crazy. It’s a nice day today, good for a drive. I saw you coming to work driving that Saturn of yours . . .”

Here is a man obsessed with cars, and Koon does own more cars than he has teeth. I have to shut him down here and now lest he commits himself, or worse me to something we’ll both regret. I said, “For the last time Koon, I’m not selling you my car.”

Koon recoiled, “Hey, hey that’s not what I’m here about . . . but my offer is still on the table. No? Well you drive a nice car so I figure you got a smart opinion.”
I asked, “Where are you going with this Koon?”

He said, “I’m looking to buy a car from my friend Mike, a Volkswagen. Somebody like you knows about European cars right? I want you to go see the car with me, tell me what you think.”

Mike, a friend of Koon and a name I hoped never again for a long time. When the store hired Koon they also took on his friend Mike, and I was charged with showing Mike the ropes for work in the backroom. Much like Koon, Mike descended from the hills in search of opportunity, but where Koon wanted money to buy more cars Mike wanted a job to fuel another past time, one involving heroin. The friend wasn’t any junky though, this kid had a real drive, a professional addict.

Leading Mike around I soon learned the dedication Mike had to his craft. The kid went on break before me, a courtesy on my part I’m remiss to repeat since Mike didn’t return for over half an hour, forcing me to go on a manhunt to find my ward lest I get in trouble for his disappearance during my shift. I scoured every inch of the store and Mike just wasn’t there, leading me to search the surrounding property, and I found him behind the store dumpsters. There Mike was fresh in his dress shirt fished out of a Wal-Mart dumpster and a haircut reminiscent of Charles Manson, the kid’s eyes darting about paranoid as if in expectation of the impending race war, Helter Skelter.

Squatting in the store refuse with a needle in his arm Mike went about his business unaware I watched. Once he finished mike turned to me and said, “Hey Isaac what’re you doing here?”

I said, “I’m looking for you.”

He said, “Oh. Can you take my Saturday shift? I’m busy that day.”

I told Mike I’m already working Saturday and Mike just shrugged as he got up and returned to work. Needless to say I informed our manager of the show Mike put on behind the store and Mike, the smooth operator he is, slid out the door and never came back; he wasn’t missed except by Koon who to this day holds Mike’s quick release as a personal affront on the part of the management, but I digress. Koon wants to buy a car from his old friend and he wants me to give him consul, so I gave Koon my two cents, “Don’t do it Koon just let it go. If the car’s from Mike it isn’t worth doing business.”

Koon said, “Nah I gotta at least see the car, so let’s go after work.”

I said, “Wait, wait, you want me to go see the car? No, that’s stupid. You can go make that decision on your own, you have my opinion.”

Koon pleaded, “Come on guy you can’t just decide like that, you gotta make an effort, buying a car ain’t a light matter. All I need is a second set of eyes.”

This did not bode well for me, or for anyone else involved for that matter. At the end of my shift I found myself in the passenger seat of a 1989 Ford F-350 with a rusting frame, stripped upholstery and the smell of dead chickens filling the cabin. Koon drove homeward and my eyes wandered about, settling on an old M1-Garand stored on a rack hanging on the back of the truck cabin. Koon noticed my interest saying, “Yep, that was Pappy’s gun, killed a ton of Nazis with it.”

I thought on what Koon said, imagining an army of rednecks and hillbillies washing over Western Europe, and I wondered what the Europeans thought . . . the devastation we country bumpkins wrought on their well ordered world, an inbred Armageddon. We passed into the back woods part of town, driving by what I thought to be landfills and scrap yards, areas filled with piles of garbage and broken cars, but it dawned on me these dumps belong to people, constituting their front yards.

We came to a stop in front of a lawn relatively clean compared to the rest, a beat up red Volkswagen in the driveway. The house is run down, a den of rats festering in a rotting neighborhood. We exited the truck and the sound of slamming doors drew Mike out of his home, and the guy had bags under his eyes, sunken cheekbones, and needle scars all along his arms. Mike completed his look with a yellow stained wife beater and boxer shorts, no need for pants in this exchange, and Koon greeted his old friend with pleasantries as I waited far off to the side near the truck.

Soon everyone got down to the business of selling the red Volkswagen, a delicate and well practiced dance among the hill folk. Mike showed the both of us around the car, Loon the buyer and me the witness judging this particular offering. I suppose I should be honored to participate in this cultural institution, but I feel uncomfortable and a little afraid. We get a tour of the entire car, the weather damaged exterior and empty interior, everything from the upholstery to the electronics stripped from the vehicle. Mike and Koon swung around front of the car for the all important check under the hood, the part that could make or break a deal. The two made a production of lifting up the hood and underneath was . . . nothing.

The car had no radiator, no battery and alternator, not even an engine. The entire engine block gone I inquired as to where it went and Mike said, “Oh, hey I had to have some work done so I had it taken out, but the car’s still good.”

I turned to Koon, “I don’t know much about cars Koon but I do know this car is shit. It’d cost too much to fix no matter what Mike’s charging. How much is he asking?”

Koon said, “He only wants eight hundred for the car. Eight hundred! Don’t look at it like it is but how it’ll become. I’ve owned cars kinda like this before, so I can fix ‘er up good.”

I gave Koon my last word, “You can’t fix this pile Koon, it’s beyond you, and anyone else besides.”

Koon ogled the car, “I’m gonna buy it.”

With nothing left to say, Koon produced eight hundred dollars cash on the spot, paying Mike for the car. It struck me that Koon had eight hundred cash on him, rendering the entire exercise a pointless endeavor. Having played my part in this song and dance I hopped back into the truck as Koon hitched the Volkswagen to the back, and with everything set we took off again I making the comment, “You know you just handed eight hundred dollars to a heroin addict.”

Koon shook his head, “Don’t worry Mike told me he was clean.”

I said, “The heroin addict said he’s clean . . . right. He’s going to kill himself.”

Koon asked how and I answered, “With however much heroin eight hundred dollars can buy.”

The rest of the night went by quiet, and the day after next I showed up for work ready to take on the hordes of shoppers. I picked up a newspaper for break and flipped through, a name in the obituaries catching my eye. Koon’s good friend Mike up and died the day before, the cause of death not given. Koon showed the proper amount of devastation at losing a close friend, and I didn’t have anything good to say about the turn of events so I kept to myself.