Phoenix Stories: The Willys MB

The morning light eased itself across the lawn and through the folds of the window shade, falling slowly from the pane to the wooden headboard where Bruce lay sleeping. The change in color overtook his eyelids as he gradually awoke, releasing a yawn of quiet Sunday satisfaction. He wiped the corners of his eyes and admired the fairy-like dust that floated through the beam of sunlight in front of the far window. He had always enjoyed watching it flutter during the light moments of the early morning; but the glimmer of this particular day was accompanied by an elevated sense of happiness. He sat there a moment, reveling in the quietness of it while subtly contemplating a return to the pleasantries of sleep; but his excitement could not be kept at bay any longer for the events that were to transpire today had been two years in the making. In some distant frame of his mind, he thought of his late Uncle, laughing with a booming heart and familial pride from another world. A moment more could not be wasted, he thought - springing from the bed in to his oiled Carhartts, worn Sauconys and the frayed shirt of his Alma mater. He headed toward the pantry and conjured up a light breakfast, washing it down with a shot of pulp-free OJ, as he headed across the back lawn to the cluttered one-car garage. The cramped 10x12 workstation had been both a hideaway and a paradise. There was a work bench, two jacks, a trolley, a multitude of oils, greasers, lubricants, waxes, finishes, paints and caulks, along with an air pressure gauge, a case of sandpaper, two boxes of tools and a crate filled with Mason jars containing nuts, bolts, nails, screws and washers. He had also placed a tiny fridge near the entry-door that contained a constantly revolving supply of string cheese, power bars, Gatorade, and two packs of blue collar beer, which he rewarded himself with only on the rarest of occasions. The walls had run plain and threadbare since he had started the project, with the exception of the two Crawford posters that faced the floor from the ceiling, making for a nice view when working from the trolley. His Honda Civic had been neglected to the the street in front of the house since the beginning of '09, and had even drawn complaints from the neighbors, who felt it hindered their driveway accessibility. As he eased toward the light-switch that depended upon the tug of the hanging tennis ball, he felt a rush of excitement take over as he gave it a wide-eyed pull. And there she was. A rustic red, with aged slabs of iron across the hood, her windshield conjoined down the center with a forged strip of steel. The fenders atop her new tires shielded the car from femininity, broadening the build - looking as if it were a man from the era - shoulders broad, back straight, head held high and proud. The moment had come abruptly as he stood there looking at the Willys MB Army Jeep that his Uncle had left him. What had once been issued to returning soldiers from the European Theater was on the verge of being back in operation after having sat idly for the past 40 years. He walked across the hood, inspecting it inch by inch, making his way to the raw grip of the steering wheel that jutted out from the left side of the dash. With his palms stretched outward, he sat in the driver-side seat and wrapped his leather fingers around the grips. He savored the moment, noting the remaining tasks that needed to be accomplished. He went back in to the house and pulled the recently issued license plates from the file cabinet behind his desk chair, along with the registration and proceeded back to the garage. There, he lifted the spare oil drum in to the bed and fastened the plates in the front and rear. He felt that the rusted tint of the Arizona plates complemented her well. He turned toward the garage door and rolled it up in to the ceiling, as a white ray of sunlight blanketed his proud figure. It was a magnificent moment. He stood there, looking out at the street and the high hills beyond the houses that lined it. The time is now, he thought to himself. As he pulled out of his Mesa suburb and on to Interstate-10, he could feel the highway wind ripping through his hair. The sun sat above the red rocks of Phoenix as he pushed the pedal down to the floorboard, accelerating past the array of vacationers headed to Las Vegas and Palm Springs. He knew that he ran the risk of overheating once he entered the desert floor passed Avondale and Buckeye, but something felt right about pushing the envelope. As he passed the cities outlying suburbs, he fell in tune with her, humming along with a thundering pulse - the powerful vibration of the Willys MB punching along the interstate just as it had in 1944.

Matchbox 20 - Unwell 

Muddy Water - Worried Mind (Jeremy Sole remix) 

The Black Keys - The Only One

Max Stalling - I Could Be Wrong