“Yeah. Back in 1950, Detroit took it for granted a car wouldn’t make it past ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine point nine. If by some miracle it did, all those nines rolled over—”
“Sure,” Brockton interrupted, “to zeros, all of ’em. Back to the beginning. Clean slate. Fresh start.”
Rebirth, or at least the illusion of it, long as you looked only at the numbers—not at holes in floorboards, or rusted-out fenders, or cracking, chalky paint, or rotted upholstery and shredded headliner.
Tyler had been a kindergartner the last time the Chevy’s odometer had racked up so many nines, but he remembered the event with Kodachrome vividness.
IT WAS A SUMMER Sunday afternoon, after church and after dinner, everyone stuffed and sleepy and still in their hot polyester church clothes. The truck was what his dad drove to work, or to the lumberyard or the dump or to Sears to get new appliances; everything else happened in the Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser, the big station wagon with the skylight windows. But that Sunday, the four of them piled into the sweltering, musty cab—no air conditioner, of course; the seat belts long since lost in the gap between the seat cushion and seat back. His parents perched on either side of the broad bench seat, with Tyler sandwiched between them, his baby sister, Anne Marie, age two, on his mom’s lap. They’d driven the thirty miles from Knoxville to Lenoir City, to the white farmhouse on River Road where Gran and Pop-Pop lived. The whole way down, his father’s gaze was glued to the odometer, and he nearly ran off the road—not once but twice, the second time provoking a gasp and a sharp “Wesley” from his mother. As they turned off River Road and crunched to a stop in the gravel driveway, his father tapped the instrument panel. “Look at that,” he’d said, “ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-eight point two. Perfect. Plenty of margin.” He’d then commenced to honking, laying on the horn for what seemed like forever, until Gran and Pop-Pop emerged at last, looking nappish and puzzled and maybe not all that thrilled at the surprise visit.
“What are y’all doing here?” Gran had said, then her cheeks turned red. “I mean, in that old thing? That bucket of bolts should have gone to the junkyard years ago.” Her flustered expression brightened when Tyler’s mom handed Anne Marie to her.
“Bucket of bolts? Are you referring to this marvelous machine, Mama? This paragon of mechanical perfection?” Tyler’s father had acted indignant, but even at five, Tyler could tell he was teasing, and he giggled. “Mama dear, we have come all the way from Knoxville to take you two for an old-fashioned Sunday drive. Get in. You’ll like it.” Tyler’s mom reclaimed Anne Marie momentarily, and Gran clambered into the cab, still looking baffled. Pop-Pop resisted, insisting he should ride in the back so Tyler’s mom wouldn’t have to.
“Are you kidding?” she’d said, handing Anne Marie into the cab, back to Gran. “I love riding in the back of a pickup. Makes me feel like a kid again.” She fiddled with the latch, and the tailgate fell open with a screech and a bang. “Tyler and I will be happy as hound dogs back here,” she said, boosting him up onto the tailgate. Tyler could scarcely believe his good fortune. Never—never—had he been allowed to ride in the back of the truck. “It’s a death trap,” his mom would invariably say, any time his dad suggested that maybe, just this once, it might be okay.
With another screech and a bang and a sly wink at Tyler, his dad slammed the tailgate and got behind the wheel once more. Tyler’s mom settled them in the front corners of the bed, frowning at the dirt and the rust. “Now you sit still and hold on tight,” she said, and Tyler nodded eagerly.
Driving far more slowly than usual, Tyler’s dad pulled out of the driveway and headed farther out River Road, along a stretch that ran straight and flat between fields of dark, glossy corn. After a couple of miles, he eased the truck to a stop, right there in the road, and cut the engine. Then he shifted into neutral, pulled the emergency brake, opened the driver’s door, and got out. “Come on around her and take the wheel, Daddy,” he’d said to Pop-Pop. “Ease off that brake and let her coast when I give you the word.” Then, walking to the back of the truck, he’d opened the tailgate and helped his son and his wife hop down. Motioning her toward the truck’s right rear corner, he’d placed Tyler behind the center of the tailgate, then stationed himself at the left rear corner. “Ready, Daddy?”
“What on God’s green earth are y’all doing?” squawked Gran.
“The odometer’s fixin’ to turn over, Mama,” he’d hollered. “One hundred thousand miles! Daddy, let that brake off so we can push this fine machine into its second lifetime.”