Driving Blind

“Jump, Quint!”

I reached the Studebaker before him and Mr. Mysterious was no sooner in the front seat than we took off.

“Right and then left and then right, correct, Quint?”

And right, left, right it was to Main Street and us banging away fast.

“Don’t laugh so loud, Quint.”

“Can’t help it! This is peacherino!”

“Stop swearing. Anyone following?”

“Three young guys on the sidewalk here. Three old gents off the curb there!”

He slowed. The six following us soon became eight.

“Are we almost at the cigar-store corner where the loudmouths hang out, Quint?”

“You know we are.”

“Watch this!”

As we passed the cigar store he slowed and choked the gas. The most terrific Fourth of July BANG fired out the exhaust. The cigar-store loudmouths jumped a foot and grabbed their straw hats. Mr. M. gave them another BANG, accelerated, and the eight following soon was a dozen.

“Hot diggity!” cried Mr. Mysterious. “Feel their love, Quint? Feel their need? Nothing like a brand-new eight-cylinder super prime A-1 Studebaker to make a man feel like Helen just passed through Troy! I’ll stop now that there’s folks enough for arguments to possess and fights to keep. So!”

We stopped dead-center on Main and Arbogast as the moths collected to our flame.

“Is that a brand-new just-out-of-the-showroom Studebaker?” said our town barber. The fuzz behind my ears knew him well.

“Absolutely spanking brand-new,” said Mr. M.

“I was here first, I get to ask!” cried the mayor’s assistant, Mr. Bagadosian.

“Yeah, but I got the money!” A third man stepped into the dashboard light. Mr. Bengstrom, the man who owned the graveyard and everyone in it.

“Got only one Studebaker now,” said the sheepish voice under the Hood. “Wish I had more.”

That set off a frenzy of remorse and tumult.

“The entire price,” said Mr. M. in the midst of the turmoil, “is eight hundred and fifty dollars. The first among you who slaps a fifty-dollar bill or its equivalent in singles, fives, and tens in my hand gets to pink-slip this mythological warship home.”

No sooner was Mr. Mysterious’ palm out the window than it was plastered with fives, tens, and twenties.

“Quint?”

“Sir?”

“Reach in that cubby and drag out my order forms.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Bengstrom! Cyril A. Bengstrom!” the undertaker cried so he could be heard.

“Be calm, Mr. Bengstrom. The car is yours. Sign here.”

Moments later, Mr. Bengstrom, laughing hysterically, drove off from a sullen mob at Main and Arbogast. He circled us twice to make the abandoned crowd even more depressed then roared off to find a highway and test his craze.