Carburetor on a Malibu

North Carolina winters.
There was a foot of snow on the ground a week ago. Today, it was 71 degrees. I’m driving the back roads, avoiding all interstates. The holidays make them even worse than they already are. Grandmothers driving. Fathers behind the wheel while kids scream and yell. Cops everywhere. It can start to be a bit like Death Race 2000, without David Carradine to keep it interesting.
I’m on a stretch of road where 125/903 and 301 all merge into one road. It’s no different than most of eastern North Carolina. A lot of old farms that don’t grow much of anything anymore. Some have been divided up into lots. And instead of old sharecropper houses or even slave’s quarters, there are doublewides instead. Guess it’s sort of someone’s American Dream.
I get to Halifax. It’s called the Birthplace of Freedom. Somehow, I have a feeling others may have a better claim to such a name. But I’m not arguing. Not now.
As the drive continues, the white stucco garage is a beacon of light through all of the fog. The snow is still on the sides of the road, but it’s over 60 degrees still. But the temperatures are dropping fast. And this makes for lots of fog. Bad fog. The kind that idiots turn on their high beams while driving through it. Completely obscuring anything that isn’t a couple feet in front of their eyes. It must give comfort, the extra light. I don’t see it. And neither will they see the deer.
The garage has never had a light on in the decade I’ve been traversing these back roads. Ever. It’s always been a closed up shop. There is another garage just up the road. It has gas pumps and a convenience store attached. In a town of maybe 400 folks, I guess that was enough.
But tonight, there is someone there. The neon Open sign is on. It’s 8:33 p.m. on New Year’s Day. Just odd, I think to myself.
I slow down when I get near. I look inside. One mechanic is working on an old car. Looks like a Chevy Malibu. I guess time stops for a Malibu in these parts.
He stops whatever he’s doing to look out at me, creeping past his building on such a strange night. We lock eyes. He tips his hat and spits. I wave. And I keep driving.
Just a few hundred feet later, I see the lights of a pickup truck turn on. From the garage. It also has those AC lights on top. For spotlightin’ deer. I’d actually seen three cops pulling over trucks for doing just that on the drive so far. And three other trucks doing it in other places. Seems to take the sport out of it.
I wonder for a second what the mechanic is doing. He leaves his garage wide open in driving out. It’s a small town, I guess you can trust.
But I’m not from here. And now I’m nervous as I can see he’s coming for me. His headlights flashing brights over and over. Plus, I’m going 38. He’s catching up at at least 65. After a couple of seconds of thought, I pull over to the side of the road. At the railroad tracks. I open up the glove box, my 45 is there. Unloaded. No time to load now, so I grab it and tuck it between my legs.

I look in my mirrors, the mechanic is a short one. No taller than 5-foot-3 I’d guess. My senses are still a bit on edge from my last run in with a local. About 70 miles ago. Outside of Vanceboro. A guy was walking down the middle of U.S. 17. In long johns and a flannel shirt, tied around his waist. In his hands was a shotgun. On the shotgun was a Bowie knife, duct taped to the front. On top of the guy was a flashlight, yes, duct taped to it.
I didn’t know what was in his hands when I had to slam my brakes on when he just appeared in the road in front of me. I thought I had to have hit him. Instead, I missed. He ambled up to my door, tapped on the glass.
“You in a hurry boy?” he asked.
“Not really. Why were you in the middle of the road?” I queried.
“Looking for my cat,” he said, walking away.
I took that as my cue to get the heck out of dodge. And did so.
Now, 70 miles later, another local is about to meet me and maybe my gun, Bessie.
Tap, tap, tap, the mechanic raps on my window. It’s fogged up from my heavy breathing I guess. I roll it down. Standing there is Julie Delpy. Grease on her face.
“Excuse me,” she says in her French accent. “Why did you slow down at my garage.”
“Your garage?” I say, a bit flabbergasted by Julie Delpy owning a garage in Halifax, North Carolina.
“Qui,” she said, looking impatient.
“That place has been closed for a decade, tonight it wasn’t. I was curious.”
“Oh. Ok,” she said, turning back to her truck.
Now, I’m sitting there, unloaded gun in my lap thinking Julie Delpy is living in Halifax, North Carolina. I’m in Halifax, North Carolina. This must be a sign. So, I get out of my car and try to figure out something to say.
“You want to get a drink?” is what I manage.
“Only if you help me with the carburetor on that Malibu,” she says.
“Don’t know a damn thing about cars,” I reply, instantly regretting it. Only to be given a reprieve.
“Neither do I, want to be partners?”
All I can do is shake my head in approval.