We were young. We were poor. We were stupid. (Eventually we grew older and somewhat less poor, but...) We were heading home from a West Virginia trip in my old Fiat 850 Spyder, the most ill suited shuttle vehicle ever manufactured.
Coming down a mountainside the engine quit. And no amount of coaxing or cursing could convince it to restart. Drifting the Spyder down the mountain we came to a wide spot in the road, near a ramshackle building, surrounded by dozens of cars and trucks in various states of disrepair.
"A garage" we think. A West Virginia garage. Chance that they’ll have parts for a ‘72 Spyder, near zero. Chance that they’ll have a telephone...well, it’s West Virginia...call it 50/50.
We drift the car over to the side and Scott and I walk around to the back of the building. If this is a garage it must be customer appreciation day, there are at least 50 people back here, horseshoe throwing, barbecue grills going, beer flowing.
We have been subsisting on stolen apples for the past few days, hoping we’d have enough gas money to make it home, and immediately begin to salivate at the sight and smell of real food. And beer...we’d bought our last beers in a backwood tavern with loose change scavenged from the glove box and between the seats of the Fiat. Pennies for Pabst.
We walk into the crowd, searching for someone reasonably intelligent looking to ask about the nearest telephone or garage. We swiftly decide to limit our search criteria to finding someone reasonably sober.
Midway through the crowd a large woman, in a large house dress, makes eye contact with me and bulls her way into my path. Planting herself squarely in my face she drunkenly shouts "YOU MUST BE BUBBA’S BOY! MY, HOW YOU’VE GROWN". I sense Scott edging away behind me.
"No Ma’am, I..." I begin. "FARLEY, LOOKEY HERE, IT’S BUBBA’S BOY" she hollers, and heads begin to turn.
This is not going well. Impersonating an in-law at a West Virginia reunion...I don’t think the penalty is actually codified in the Annotated Code of West Virginia, but I’ll bet it’s not pleasant. I see Scott, now on the edge of the crowd, either suffering from convulsions or trying really, really hard not to laugh.
"DAMN BOY, YOU DONE GOT BIG" Farley bellows, pumping my hand. "No sir, I..." I mumble. "HERE BOY, HAVE A BEER. GIT YERSELF SOME FOOD BOY, YA LOOK HONGERY". Mrs Farley brings me a heaping plate. I see Scott stop chortling and begin edging his way back towards me.
Scott sidles up beside me "So, what’s going on" he asks, enviously eyeing my plate of fried chicken, potato salad, corn bread and cup of cold beer.
"Well, I’m Bubba’s boy" I tell him "Who the hell are you?"
"Do you really think this is a good idea?" Scott asks. "They’re gonna kill us"
"Yeah, probably" I agree "But at least I’m gonna die with a full stomach. Man, this chicken is good". Scott nervously works his way over to food and drink, conspicuous in his attempt to appear inconspicious. He comes back with a full plate and a full cup, giving me the "This is another fine mess..." look all the while.
"This chicken is great" he whispers, shoveling it in. "We’re gonna die, ya know" he adds, and I see his eyes grow wide - Farley approaches. Scott, sensing that there is no escape, eats faster.
"WHO’S YER FRIEND HERE?" Farley asks. I debate a number of possible responses, (perhaps, "Oh this is my special friend, Scott" - nah, too messy a way to go....or maybe "This is Billy Bob’s second cousin twice removed, Billy Bob, Jr" - nah, delving into a West Virginia family tree would probably be even messier). I finally decide it’s time to fess up "Sir, we’re not here for the reunion. Our car broke down coming down the mountain".
"BROKE DOWN - WHY DINCHA SAY SO?...JIMMY RAY, GO FETCH MA TOOLBOX, THESE FELLERS HERE HAS CAR TROUBLE".
Jimmy Ray returns with Farley’s toolbox as half of the other menfolk begin rummaging in the backs of pick-ups for their tools as well. Soon a crowd of shade tree mechanics has surrounded my "Eye-talian motor car" and, after figuring out that the engine is rear mounted, begins turning wenches and removing parts. As the parts pile grows I become alarmed; there aren’t all that many parts in an 850 engine to begin with.
Soon the parts pile ceases to grow; now I’m concerned about the phrases emanating from the circle of mechanics "Take that damn thing back off Jimbo, we don’t need it none"..."Sheeit, lookit this"... "Hell Lester, that ain’t never gonna work"...
About the time my growing concern has reached despair levels, Farley stuffs himself into the driver’s seat and cranks her over. And she starts. Scott and I both try to conceal our amazement; the mechanics circle futzes with the engine for a few more minutes before packing up their tools and wandering back to the party.
Farley comes over and we express our thanks. Farley gives us an "Aw, shucks, it were nothing" spiel and tells us we ‘Cain’t leave yet, you hain’t had no dessert".
In the space of an hour we went from stranded, hungry and friendless to rescued, fed and family. Mountaineers are always free men...and damn good people too.