“Bumpers? We got bumper to bumper bumpers. We got bumpers from ‘66 Caddies to 2013 Lamborghinis.”
“Do they still make Lamborghinis?” I asked, but I only got a glare back.
“It’s just a 1980 something Chevy van,” Twiggy said.
“Metal bumper. They don’t make ‘em like they used to. How’d you bend up the old one without bashing up the van?”
“I… uh ripped it off with a tractor and then backed over it,” Twiggy admitted.
“Not too bright.”
“I’d never driven a tractor before.”
“You’re going to need more work than just buying a used bumper. Go see Charlie in Dickens.”
“You don’t have a shop in Washington that can do it?” Twiggy asked.
“Sure we do. But Charlie and me we go way back.”
“Charlie seems to go way back with a lot of folks,” I thought aloud.
“Here we go. Chevy bumper. Complete with bumper stickers. I won’t charge you extra for the bumper stickers.”
“Well, maybe we won’t get mugged again,” Twiggy said when he read: Don’t worry about the dog. Beware of owner, and Guarded by Smith and Wesson. The other bumper sticker was a little ironic. It said: Scrapaholic. I thought the van had belonged to a couple, one a gun owner and the other a scrapbooker, but the scrapaholic bumper sticker really stood out in a scrap yard.
“When you see Charlie, tell ‘im Mort sent you.”
“Okay.”
I walked around looking at all the old cars while Mort and Twiggy went into the office. There were cars in that junkyard I had never heard of before. It looked like people drove cars for a long time in Washington. Then when we left I couldn’t help but watch the traffic wondering how old the cars on the road were. After a while I began watching for a car dealership, but I never saw one. Maybe the people who lived in Washington didn’t buy a new car often because the nearest new car was in another town. Somehow that seemed unlikely, but I had yet to see a place to buy a new car.
“Charlie’s place is probably closed,” Twiggy said as he pulled into a small chain motel. Wow, we were going up in the motel world! I decided the Free Wifi sign had drawn him in. “I think we should wash off some of this mud and get a good night’s rest.”
“A most excellent idea,” I said.
“Then in the morning… uh… well, here’s what I was thinking. I’m not asking you to do my work for me, but it would probably save some time if you could do laundry while I drive to Charlie’s and take care of the van.”
“Okay. I don’t mind doing laundry. It’s one hundred percent better than washing dishes. That was always my least favorite chore as a kid. I think even some of the supposedly clean clothes in the van might need washing. Besides, you don’t sort. How are your clothes going to last if you don’t sort?”
“You can stay at the room and do it while I get the van fixed.”
“How am I going to do that? Handwash in the bathrub? I guess I’ve done that before when I ran out of quarters.”
“No,” he said as he pointed to a sign. One of the things listed was guest laundry services. That sounded expensive, but it turned out it just meant there was a little laundry room down the hall from our room. It was late by the time we rented a room and hauled the boxes in so I could sort. I took a quick shower and Twiggy fell asleep before I finished. I did a little laundry sorting before deciding Twiggy had the right idea so I slipped under the covers and turned off the light. He mumbled something, got up, changed clothes, crawled into bed and pulled up the covers.
“I wish I wasn’t so tired,” he said.
Another dangerous statement begging for a “Why?”
“Because,” he said. “You look like an angel when you sleep. I like the smell of your hair and your carefree cheerfulness even when you’re asleep. I like your eyelashes. But I can’t keep my eyes open.”