A Legacy Project

The car is parked at the edge of our service station drive, next to the restaurant. It’s a light blue 1968 Chevolet Impala, a convertible. The top is down. The car belongs to Jim Ingram, an itinerant welder. He’s all of six feet tall, thin and rangy, in his 30’s. He wears jeans and a chambray workshirt and a welder’s cap with a short bill. The cap is white, with pink roses on it. At the moment he could be next door in the restaurant having coffee, or he could be in the lounge on the other side of the coffee shop, having a cocktail. I’m thirteen years old. To me, Jim Ingram has an aura of danger. It’s the narrow look in his eyes. 

My dad is in the backroom doing car repair when he looks up and sees the Impala. He wipes his hands on a shop rag, walks across the drive to the car, reaches in, and takes the keys from the ignition. He sees me watching, says nothing, and goes back to this work in the shop.

In a few minutes Jim Ingram strides across the drive and into the shop.

“Gimme those keys, John,” he says. 

My dad looks up from his work, then back down. He says, “You owe me money, Jim.”

“The keys,” Jim Ingram says.

I know what my dad is thinking. If you’ve got money to go next door and have a cocktail, you’ve got money to pay me what you owe. What I don’t know is that we’re paying a bank down in Saginaw for a revolving line of credit. We’re financing Jim Ingram’s debt, a lot of customers’ debt, and that bank’s interest rate has been moving in the wrong direction. 

“I send you statements. Just last week I sent one. Did you see that?”

“I’ve been a little short. I can pay you next week.” 

“No,” my dad says. “It’s been three months. We oughta take care of this matter right now.” It’s a standoff. He glances at me. “Hand me that 9/16 box-end wrench, son.” 

In the next long moment, Jim Ingram lights a cigarette and tosses the burning match on the floor. He takes two deep drags one after another and drops the cigarette on the floor, grinding it out with the toe of his work boot. “Look,” he says. He takes off his hat and smooths his hair, staring at my dad, who does not look up from his work. Finally, from his shirt pocket Jim Ingram pulls out a roll of bills.

“Just a sec,” my dad says. “I’ll get you your receipt.” 

“Don’t bother. Just gimme my keys.” 

We hear the rumble of the Impala convertible engine and a little rubber burn as he merges on Main Street. “That’s the last we’ll see of him,” I say.

“Maybe,” my dad says. “Maybe not. Hand me those needle nose pliers.”