The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Sometime back when Tyee Store was still the economic center of the South End I walked in from my trail connecting our Shangri-la-la with the other side of the island after spotting a car like we had, same vintage, and since we were pushing 275,000 miles on it, I wondered how many miles this one had, hopefully an additional 100,000 which would give me unbridled optimism about ours longevity.   We were the only two customers so I assumed it was his car.  “How many miles on that rig out there?” I asked the guy at the counter purchasing his cigs and beers.  He looked around at me and the look on his face immediately veered from innocent bystander to potential casualty.

He said he didn’t know and stopped looking me in the eyes.  His were glued to the floor.
“You don’t know how many miles your own car has?” I persisted, thinking maybe we could wander out and just have a look-see on the odometer.  Logic is one of my strong points, as you can see.  I think I might have asked it in a somewhat incredulous, possibly even rude tone of voice, one that rattled him.

“It’s not mine, it’s my uncle’s,” he finally offered lamely, trying to get his bill paid and his change back.  His nervousness quotient was palpable now but hellfire, all I wanted to know was whether I could expect my own chariot to run into the next decade or not, what’s the problem, kid?  Patty behind the counter watched this dispassionately.  Tyee gets plenty of weirdness, nothing to make her reach for the panic button or a phone to alert the authorities.  Yet.

“Your uncle’s?”  I asked, starting to wonder if this was a stolen vehicle, none of my business, of course, but then again, a concerned citizen.  That might be my car the punk had hotwired and made his escape to the hideaways of the nettle savannahs of the South End.  Civic duty required maybe I ask one more time, “So you don’t know how many miles on that jalopy of your uncle’s.”  By now Patty had given him his change, bagged his goods and parked the receipt in the bag.  The kid was sweating noticeably, hands shaky, eye contact non-existent.  “I told you I don’t know,” he muttered as he swept by me and out the door.

I looked at Patty and said, “Man, that guy was nervous as a cat.  Whaddaya make of that?”

“Your hat,” she said.  “DEA.”  I had forgotten that I’d tossed a ballcap on before taking to the woods, one that meant Drug Enforcement Agency to the kid, I guess.  Whatever sadistic pleasure I’d taken from our little tete-a-tete gave me some idea what a cop must feel like when a few questions, innocent enough, break the subject’s will.  Cat and mouse.  Sadism could rear its ugly head.  When I got home, I put the cap away.  The cops don’t need my help anyway.  My car died a couple weeks later, ran out of oil, blew up the engine.  I guess that answered my question without the kid’s help.

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