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Cool guy, Petee, one great-God, grease-neck philosopher.
Clunky yellow bus filled with all its after-school chatter, aimed right behind the ear, straight into the teenage mid-brain, mystical world of black velvet nude painting, Elvis autographed wallet wad of confused hope. Another Petee story goes round robin, one more bathhouse full of Miss runners-up, all naked, jiggling, splashing, giggling and taunting; they can arouse our sweat locker bus, but it screeches to a halt. We empty into the street, all pimples aching for sugar and grease, primal craving, headed straight for Petee's Texaco station.
"Hey, Bubba," see that blond guy with a flat top? Master mechanical, he knows how to put parts together, dates women who look like slowly poured cream; Bubba looks at his new car sheen like it's a mirror, spends time in there, takes a drop of concentrated mint. Now, he strolls in, back from mechanic's school, a brand new tale to tell as schoolboys gather round.
"I was down the road last night out-a-gas, rolled in to the Amoco, hot tires steaming from the turnpike, windshield covered with bug juice, had to get my date home early and close up here, like I always, hollered, gimmie eight cent worth of gas, enough to get me up to Petee's." Cool guy, Petee, one great-God, grease-neck philosopher. German shepherd squeals for candy and nabs,
barks like a shotgun for cinnamon rolls bathed in cigarette smoke and urinal deodorant, mmmm, smells like a gas station hangout, smeary vending machine, personnel tackle you, like to wench by force in three garage-bays. Engine blocks and universal joints, hang by chains, hover above jet black concrete, shadow a tool-calendar babe. Against a backdrop tangle of tail pipes and mufflers, bystanders come for the mysteries of life, not fuel injection. Hear them laugh at the butt of a dirty joke, stammer in disbelief at all the abuse, cross the border of flesh and fantasy, compress the glottis, hope for age, sound more ocean going, tramp steamer, less of a Saturday night model maker, ship in a bottle, glue-head, cereal box frogman.
Behind doors waiting for a day of oiled red clay, sits Petee's Baby Doll, supercharged thunder, poised for a miracle, hoisted high on red hydraulic racks, all rally black, sleek as time and wind allow metallic movement, wide bored to pump rare particles of racing blood, and streak blue hell on a road-rage afternoon. Rough boys spin volumes, itching for road dust, lurching rainbow, from jump-start to checkered flag. Heavy downshift sounds, twenty-five clutches jerk rubber, feel for road space and firm clay under rack and pinion. Cold running, ethylene rush of the senses, carburetor glory-breathing, Baby Doll enters the final turn.
Girls go out with car men for hot floorboards and gas fumes, and the robust hum of V-8 horses mothered in dark hours. It's a race engine concept, fine tuned with luck-tight nuts based on swarthy, smooth riding, pneumatic rhythm and perfect-timing chains. Men searching for their pride, look in greasy mirrors, heavy with mint breath, oyster jokes and mythical semen. Each reflection is scratched by metal, moving in and out of storage, items that lower the value of love, and sideline girls, or pit fools. Lookout Miss winner kiss all, back off hoochie-coos and floozies, here comes Petee for another epic, playboy episode: dig it, beauty queens running floor-grit naked. Men who satisfy these women don't recognize a beautiful dream when they tell it. Aw, they talk all summer long, goofin' off on rock n' roll days, or drifting out on inner tubes, inflated yarns glistening in sun oil fun. Inspiration leaks from a greasy DIS-play case, slippery handed, puppy dog chases little pink fanny, pulls down white draws with teeth, a sunburned message, giggles and pain.
Stone-faced teens, calamine, hair goo, mint breathing, deodorized, heavily padded: lifts under heel, sock stuffed in dungarees, face life in cars along the dirt road, acting out the scenic moon-view overreach, out-of-gas excuse, upper-lip twitch and com'on-baby smirk. Vaseline fairy tales fog the universal mirror, too much panting, guys and gals empty the restroom machines like a Pez dispenser, cookies untrue, jollies unreal, yahoos unconfirmed, all hands in the car, worries over the spent fireworks... show's over in the back seat planetarium, just heat lightning. Stardust road grit, tracks into unlit houses, wishing, lightly sifting onto clean sheets, nearly consummating.
Scads more tall stories hanging out to dry, mere unsubstantiated pump-jock teenage dreaming; gotta be a secret plan underneath, a moonlit pattern to it all.
Tassels intertwine on the rearview, dangle more heavily in forward view, swerving starlit convertible roars toward the question. Marriage? Bubba slams on brakes, dirt cakes fall from the under carriage, gas station hero, grease junkie, shakes down the race crew, flies one last nevermore in his girlfriend's face. Anything for his pump island sage. Woops, there's Petee, nodding his wise approval. What a team. Bubba hands over one more recruit, introduces another ex-girl to his master.
He came along just when we could see the light that curved around the inside of our heads, when the semi-private room of obsession was about to reach its flash point, catching all things between the sheets and mirrors, above and below. He exposed us to the whole engine of inspiration and self disgust when Petee set fire to everything, to Baby Doll, the station, the whole works, blazing as firemen swooped around with huge hoses that watered us down before we could be engulfed by flames.
ŠJimmy Warner Design, 2010
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tool calendar
not the best place for young minds? This one's too clean.
1957 Ford
couldn't get away with this ad today
50's teen parking theme, moon tree pole
