Chop Shop

Matt Maszczak
Jul 21, 2017 · 10 min read

“It looks like a chop-shop in here.” The real estate agent chortled. Her words were joking, her face was not. The client took it all in as Jimmy slid out from under what may have once been a car.“Hi. Yeah, I’m bad at electrical problems.”

Meanwhile

Three towns over, I was completely unaware any of this was happening, but my father didn’t know that yet.

“No bullshit Matt! What the hell is going on at Bochie’s house?” My father never swore and he never pointed his finger at me. Now I was getting both at once. It was like looking down the barrel of a gun. I would have preferred that.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It was an honest reply.

“Get in the car.”

I went to my room to get my shoes and managed a harried message to my cousin’s pager: “60–911.” It was a stern warning. It meant “go…now.”

I got into the passenger seat of a green Ford Bronco and my father tore out of the driveway. His jaw was so cramped that it looked like he wanted to bite the steering wheel.

Bochie was my grandmother. She had passed away a year earlier. My grandfather, Pop, survived nine-months longer and their house was now empty and for sale. The drive there took thirty-minutes, but not at our current pace. I hoped that gave Jimmy enough time to get whatever was there out, before we arrived. I had no idea what was happening, but I knew it involved Jimmy.

The small grey house sat in the middle of a typical post-war American neighborhood. The sun fell over the Watching Mountains-which were hills more than mountains. False fall colors lit the tops of the maple trees that lined the street’s backyards. It was warm but the house looked cold and dead inside. There were no lights on. There was no one home. There was also was no one and nothing in the garage.

Two rutted tire marks ran from under the garage door, down the entire length of the frsh asphalt. They ended at the street. It looked like Marty McFly’s Delorean had hit “88 miles per hour,” on its way into Bochie’s garage and it was some pretty serious shit. My father inspected the marks.

“If you know something, you better start talking.” His hands shook. His voice was quiet enough that I struggled to hear him. I had never heard him speak like that before. I had never seen him shake with anger. It seemed to conjure a small demon that was standing on my stomach and trying to punch his way out of my sternum.

“Dad.” I had to choose my words with car, “I promise, I don’t know anything about what happened here tonight.”

He stooped down and picked bits of tire rubber from the pavement. It looked sticky. “What about what happened last night? Or the night before? Or Three nights ago.”

Oh shit, he was on to me.

“All I know…” He stood up and his face stiffened. “All I know is that Jimmy got a new car last week. Maybe he kept it here so Uncle Jim wouldn’t find out.” I was telling the truth, but not the whole truth.

“Was he keeping a car here or not?” He asked.

“It looks like it, yes. But honestly I…”

“Get in the car.” His voice was conjuring that little demon again. “Let’s go ask him.”

I felt sick. I wanted to run. I wanted to scream, but I had to play out my ruse. The ride should take another fifteen minutes. It took ten.

Uncle Jim had finished the addition. His house was yellow and taller than all the houses on his street. A big brown conversion van with a Jesus fish sticker on the spare tire sat in the driveway. That meant he was home. Jimmy’s car was not in the driveway. That twisted my gut.

The demon inside me grabbed my throat from the inside, punched me again in the sternum then jumped up and down on my lower intestines. I wasn’t sure if I should use the bathroom or wait in the Bronco.

“Get out.” My father threw the automatic transmission into park. The tires to squeal and the Bronco to lurch to a stop.

We walked up the ten steps to the front door. I felt like I was climbing Mount Doom.

Uncle Jim answered the door. “Hey Paul,” he sounded like stoner, but he as only high on Jesus, “what are you doing here?”

“We need to talk.” He didn’t wait for an invitation to enter. There were twelve more steps to the living room. I was starving for oxygen. “Where is Jimmy?” He asked reaching the top of the steps.

“I thought he was out with you Matt.” Uncle Jim waited for me to answer.

I couldn’t breath, so I didn’t. I shook my head.

“What is going on Paul?” He asked, still looking at me.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. I got a call from the real estate agent for Mom’s. She said that she brought a buyer to the house and found a chop shop.” They were both looking at me for answers. I had none. Silence was my best defense.

“Matt?” Uncle Jim didn’t have to ask the rest of the question.

“I don’t know anything.” I said. Neither believed me.

“Page Jimmy.” My Dad told me. “No special codes.” He added.

Oh shit, he WAS on to me.

I marched into the kitchen, dialed the number, waited for the tone, entered Jimmy’s number and then the last four of mine. It was my way of telling him that I was at his house. I hoped that he would fill in the blanks.

“I paged him.” I reported.

“Good.” My father put his hands in his pockets and waited.

“Did you stop by Mom’s on the way here?” Uncle Jim asked. My father nodded. “Did you find anything?”

There are tire marks from the garage to the street. It looks like someone dragged a car out of the garage. They completely ruined the pavement.” He said.

They both looked at me. Every time they did, that damned little demon stepped on another part of my insides and punched me a harder.

I had no idea where Jimmy was. He could be anywhere, but I knew that he would come home rather than call. Calling was taboo. He didn’t like his parents knowing where he was or when he would be home. It was his own form of rebellion. Cars were his heroin and they had similar effects of his loved ones.

The three of us stood there. We. Just. Stood there…waiting. Twenty-five minutes passed before I heard the whine of a Chevy TPI. His GTA slowed down and angled into the driveway. He angled the car to avoid tearing the lowered front end off the body. The motor stopped, but the rumble of two Kicker 12's continued to rattle the body panels. He was playing it cool. He always played it cool.

The screen door was all that stood between him and us. He took every glorious second to get from there to where we were.

“Hey Matt. Hey Uncle Paul. How’s it going.” He shut the door behind him and bounced up the steps, two at a time.

“Jimmy, I thought you were out with Matt.” My Uncle Jim said.

“Nope. I was out with Ritts.” He said. Ritts was another friend of ours. He would cover for either of us, without question. Ritts had nothing to lose and he didn’t care about anyone but his friends. It was a smart move. Jimmy was building an alibi.

“Well where have you been?” Uncle Jim asked.

“He got a flat over by Bochie’s. His wheel was all seized, so we had to have it towed.” He had thought this out. It wasn’t foolproof, but it was believable and my Uncle might have bought it. My father didn’t.

“Bullshit.” The way the word fell out of his mouth, made the whole room colder.

“Paul. Please don’t use that language in my house.” My Uncle Jim said.

“That’s the only word for what he said. His story is bullshit.” The demon was now jumping up and down. Up and down. Up and down.

Jimmy laughed. “If you don’t believe me you should see the marks from where we had to tow the car. They…”

“I saw them.” My father’s words stopped the story mid stride.

Up and down. Up and down.

“Oh, then you know. Sorry about that. I thought PJ could fix it for us.” Jimmy continued.

“Where’s the car?” My father asked.

That fucking demon began a jig.

“At the Sunoco. The one Ritts works at over by Spring Lake. He towed it there.” Jimmy said.

“Get in the car.”

I started down the stairs.

“You too.” My father pointed at Jimmy. Uncle Jim reached for his shoes.

The two-door Bronco was high off the ground, but once you were in the back seat, it felt like we were driving in a limo. The cabin was enormous. It made me feel small, child-like. Jimmy and I didn’t say a word.

We arrived at the station and Ritts was working. I felt that demon drain the blood from my face. My father pulled up to the pump and rolled down the window.

“Hey Mr. M and Mr. M.” Ritts said. “Sorry about the marks on your mom’s driveway. I called PJ, he said he can fix them.” Ritts had the biggest bullshit grin I’ve ever seen. Everything was a joke to him, so it wasn’t out of character.

Holy crap! Jimmy had covered his bases.

“Where’s the car?” My father opened the door and stepped out.

“Over there.” Ritts pointed to a small red coupe.

“I thought you had a Vette?” My father said.

Ritts laughed. “Not yet, but a few more months and maybe I will Mr. M.”

“Oh. Cause that’s what left the mark down my mother’s driveway.”

Ouch! Get off my lungs demon!

“I wish! Nah it was that thing. Look the front left is still flat. I can’t get it off. My boss will fix it tomorrow.” Ritts played this game well, but no one knew cars like my father.

“Cut the shit Ritts. That thing is front wheel drive.” My father said. Jimmy tried silence.

“The car you three pulled out of her house had a locked rear. Probably, because you idiots were trying to pull the tranny without disconnecting the driveline.” My father waited for a response. Ritts was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. “So, like I said, let’s cut the bullshit and get to the part where you three tell me the truth.” The swearing looked like it was giving my Uncle a headache more than the weight of the situation.

“I don’t know what you think happened.” Jimmy started.

“Don’t even think about trying to trick me. I’ve seen things you can’t even imagine. So, for the last time, cut the shit and tell me the truth.

The Truth

A week before the real estate agent walked into the “chop shop” a guy we only knew as G drove up in a purple Firebird. Jimmy and I got it. I sat in the in the cramped back seat with two twelve-inch JL sub woofers smacking me with bass. In the front seats, Jimmy and G discussed a transaction. I never heard a word of it. That was my saving grace.

Two days after that meeting, a flatbed truck pulled up to my grandmother’s house and backed up to the garage door. It unloaded a black Corvette. I was there, but I refused to step onto the driveway. I wanted no part of what was going on. I knew that ignorance was my best option. I’m glad that I was smart enough to remain ignorant.

After that flatbed arrived and unloaded the car. G picked us up and drove us back to Jimmy’s house. Jimmy and I didn’t speak about anything that had happened that day. He knew that I was against it, but he also knew that I wouldn’t tell. That was our dynamic.

In that garage, a whirlwind of quick work began. The goal was to remove a motor and transmission as well as an entire wiring harness. It was an epic job that would take a competent mechanic a week. Jimmy and another friend had a weekend. When the real estate agent stumbled in on their work, the motor was already out and the wiring harness was coming out in pieces. Some parts were already in Uncle Jim’s shed, but he didn’t know that. The motor was at Ritts house.

When Jimmy got my text, he called the flatbed. They drug the car out of the driveway. The driver dumped it in the Hudson while Jimmy drove around waiting for another page. Of course, I knew none of this. G was not a friend of mine, he creeped me out. It turns out that he was far more than creepy. Again, I was glad that I was naive.

Jimmy, Ritts and I all stuck to our stories. Uncle Jim dropped it. My father did not. But he seemed to know that I was being mostly honest. He also knew the other two were not.

Our fathers made us fix the driveway. The money came out of our savings and we provided the labor. It cost more than the car was worth, but Jimmy and I couldn’t find a way around that. The house sold a few weeks later, but not before we had one last swim in the pool. Our fathers and their two brothers had dug the pool by hand so many years before. It was hot hard work followed by a deep cool swim.

We were tamping asphalt. It was hot hard work followed by a deep cool swim. It was the perfect way to say goodbye to my grandparents, to childhood, and to innocence.

)

Matt Maszczak

Written by

A dreamer of the day, a writer, and a wanderer. I blog at www.wanderdoctrine.com

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