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BY Davey H

08/01 Direct Link

To this day, Davey seriously doubts the validity of Grundge's claim as to improper weld placement on those stupid frames.
On the coattails of that revelation, it sheds light upon what can only be assumed was a brilliant move on the part of Grundge to push Davey out the door.

Then, once Davey was gone from Smedco, Grundge could throw a party. The frames would be placed back in the assembly line, receive their requisite doo-hickeys, the drill presses would continue to hum and drone throughout the days, and Grundge would have to sharpen friggin' drill bits by his lonesome.

08/02 Direct Link

But that would be the least of Grundge's worries; let's keep in mind what Smedco was manufacturing. For starters, though Smedco's equipment offerings were made of actual metal, they were still all MANUAL tools, and in many cases, clunky to boot.

Davey sneered with vindictiveness and cheered with poetic justice when commercial and consumer grade food processing gadgets hit the markets. Names like Cuisinart®, Kitchen Aid®, and a host of equally capable competitors cemented their niche with food prep and we can be reasonably certain this also put Smedco at a distinct disadvantage.

Davey had secretly hoped they went buns-up.

08/03 Direct Link

Did Smedco perish?
Don’t perish the thought.
Their future nightmarish
the farm they had bought!

Their moniker garish,
with silliness wrought,
not bullish but bearish
with no market sought.

Of course Davey didn’t stick around to find out. He was on to smaller and fetter things

Now, then,[not sure if a comma is necessary or just plain redundant in this particular application], if memory once again swerves back into that abysmal abyss of ethanol-laced ignorance, it seems Davey was ripe for yet another upheaval, this time coming in the form of some rather ill-advised drifting.
That meant no workie, Hoss.

08/04 Direct Link

Now it seems that since this drift
was Davey’s new paradigm shift,
it would only stand to reason
that before the winter season
when his ass would be freezin’
he should SHIFT.

Tucked somewhere in the mix
was an entirely new Davey bag o’ tricks.
Yes, he tricked
an old friend named Renee
into letting him bunk and stay
at her rented place
where he could save face
with Renee and her partner so gay.

Some partner. A real piece of work,
and quite frankly a JERK.
Her name was ‘Silver’,
but Davey needed no tutor
to call Siver ‘Pewter’.

08/05 Direct Link
The two gals shared the place under some kind of informal work/barter agreement with the landlord. Painting and touch-up was on the roster, so Renee and Pewter were busy off and on slappin’ the paint on their own place.

So as a matter of course, Davey was enlisted but not by force.
Blub Avenue apartment complex could save lots of money by hiring these amateurs, and tenants wouldn't know the difference.

This slow spot in Davey's evolving life story would last until the next set of joker-job endeavors that shall, by dint of necessity remain unmentioned due to privacy concerns.
08/06 Direct Link

Privacy? 'What friggin' privacy?' The beleaguered reader may query. After all, the infamous Mark Zuckerberg infamously stated that privacy – a concept  that used to actually MEAN something – was now a JOKE.
Yes, indeed, he is correct, we may detect, but some steps can be taken to think outside the box and  at least keep the creepiest of the cretins OUT of our boxes.

Our personal lives all contain details that cretins would love to get their scurrilous mitts on; any tiny little clues as to our whereabouts on such-and-such a date, who we were with, or where we were employed.

08/07 Direct Link

As infuriating as it is, the most seemingly innocent snippets of one's personal life can yield a trove of data for phishers, data miners and other trolls with nothing but time on their hands, ads to sell and pockets to line.

So that's FINE! Here you go, trolls: DINE!

As a matter of course, Davey stayed up most nights but couldn't sleep during the day (quite understandably) whilst bunking at Renee & Pewter's shopworn pad. Never mind the  good time he had.

It is worth noting that Davey carried no credit cards, owned no cell phone, and farted a lot.

08/08 Direct Link

Keenly aware that snoopers, data miners, phishers, spammers and trolls of multifarious stripes may well be perusing each 100 words he mirthfully churns out, Davey hereby interjects the following tidbits for the benefit of data collecting entities interested in flooding his screen with ads or selling him V*iagra, soap, toilet paper, e-cigs, “Christian” singles or fake Rolex wristwatches:

Let's speculate (not quite remembering) that Pewter took pictures of sex organs and liked to fart in the bathtub, among other things. She might have preferred Backgammon over checkers, despite her checkered past; any contact with males made her frown pretty fast.

08/09 Direct Link

And true to form, Pewter tarnished easily. So maybe that meant, believe it or not, that she really WAS silver after all.
But her persona certainly didn't indicate that such was the case.
In the grand scheme of things, she and her mate just maintained the place.

Railing on regarding Pewter: she had a gruff exterior that didn't conceal any kind of soft heartedness inside. In fact, what you saw was what you got: a whole bunch of negativity on the spot.
Interaction with Pewter was a bit like coming in contact with an inexplicably angry, vindictive convenience store clerk

08/10 Direct Link

whose menacing eyes followed you as you trolled the aisles, famished as all get-out, then once you had selected your items and shuffled to the counter proceeded to tear you a supplemental cloaca.
Yes, Pewter just RADIATED misery and you, yes, YOU – or any other sucker in the immediate vicinity for that matter – could be the nearest target to spout on.

Her existence seemed to say “my life sucked, so  YOURS is going to suck.”

Davey took it in stride for the most part, knuckling under, not returning fire. After all, he didn't want his squatting opportunity to soon expire.

08/11 Direct Link

Davey had more drifting to do, and it was best to retain a modest base of operations to discharge that non-responsibility.
Painting Renee's apartment, after all, didn't fall under the heading of 'Davey's responsibility', but now, here, in retrospect – or any 'spect' for that matter – perhaps he should have been more on top of that paint slappin' and applied due diligence to make it happen. Or, barring that, at least put in a half-assed effort and cut out the crappin' To his great discredit, Davey still carried that 'skate' attitude and loathing of management so well honed from prior experiences.

08/12 Direct Link

in what could be considered 'normal' blue collar workplaces.

Hence, here in the Renee/Pewter paint slappin' setting, he was, inadvertently or intentionally, slackin' on his friend and former colleague.

Renee couldn't let that go.
And so
eventually, although
Davey had no dough
she would let him know
thus had come the time
to pardon the rhyme
that maybe it was time
to blow.

This would come as a bit of a relief for the didactically drifting Davey, who, having thus rightly blown Renee's joint,
could at this point
set out for parts unknown.
Ahh, yes – the not so great 'unknown'!

08/13 Direct Link

Next, Davey should enter here
an automobile that was so dear
or should have been, that much is clear:
'twas a sprightly Plymouth Belvedere!

Now it seems this frumpy but friendly set of wheels was left out of the equation, having been, if memory once again swerves, in service during Davey's tenure at Renee & Pewter's fine place of purveyance.
It seems that Davey's friend John Akatan had offered the Belvedere up for sale, asking the princely sum of $300.00.

Davey, of course, was interested, and began hammering home the bargaining process, settling on an offer of $270.

Done deal.

08/14 Direct Link

Completed deal, yes, but no tire squeal.
Though, you all know – or should – that car was a STEAL!

She was probably a '69 or so, with graceful feminine curves along the sides and rear quarter panels, and sported the old stalwart Chrysler 'slant six' under the hood [of unknown displacement].

This engine class was among the most rugged and long-lived of any American models ever made. Davey didn't know this at the time, and didn't perform much maintenance on the poor Belvedere.
Chalk up this lack of proper care to indolence and ignorance.

But ultimately, you’ll see that was OKAY.

08/15 Direct Link

As Davey would read in a remarkable small town paper article much later [long after he had lost the car], the old slant six allegedly could run with little or no coolant and ancient oil and still not die.

Fans of these remarkable engines had formed alliances of delighted and satisfied owners, the most notable being the 'Slant Six Club of America', which thrives to this day.

And man, didn't this old dusky tan Belvedere
have one hell of a story to tell here!
It may ramble a bit, but have no fear;
the cast of characters stands out clear.

08/16 Direct Link

When Davey settled on the Belvedere for that incredibly cheap sum of $270, he had effectively depleted his supply of liquid assets and had to scrounge for whatever employment he could sop up. This meant returning to one of his old standby occupations: washing dishes.
That was an easy job to get, after all. Any greasy spoon worth its salt could not operate without suds slingers; that always has been a given.

Davey found himself employed as a suds-slinger at on H.A. Winston's – one of those cheesy theme restaurants – and could be found nearly ass-deep in dishes on busy weekends.

08/17 Direct Link

Those insanely busy nights contained, the only hours Davey was able to nail down with any consistency. Anyone with seniority or any kind of pull could handily avoid getting their mitts greasy during those times, and might even be spotted merrymaking with other imbibers out in the lounge or at the noisy bar.

So Davey put up with having his bread – and FACE buttered on the grueling Friday and Saturday night shifts.

Becoming increasingly frustrated with the mounds of uneaten food scraped off the disgusting plates and flatware, Davey once again took to drinking as the frustration turned to rage;

08/18 Direct Link

this grease-clogged rage in turn motivating him to raid the booze closet.

He grabbed the first bottles within reach: a couple of those immediately recognizable oval vessels of Manischewitz.
Sucking the acrid purple fluid down with a voracious rapidity, Davey waxed delighted that soon he would swoon and be booz'ly excited.

The dishes came fast and furious
that Saturday night
as patrons noisily socialized
and drank themselves
into stupefied delight.

Davey was again enraged by the lack of assistance, this dish station being a two person operation.

But that was okay; being drunk meant grease could slide off much easier.

08/19 Direct Link

Hobbling out to the parking lot near midnight, Davey started up the trusty Belvedere, popped her into gear [utilizing the oh, so familiar 'three on the tree' shifter, you hear]?, and headed north on the usual Fault Road. Nearing the light at Fault & Beale, the Belvedere unexpectedly sputtered, with some rather curious red lights accompanying the sputter, leading Davey to mutter.

Being on a slope meant she had just enough momentum to ease onto a side street of the Fairplain neighborhood.
A crank of the starter.
Then another and another.
No go, Joe; so time to call your mother?

08/20 Direct Link

Davey, now faced with the prospect of being without wheels, was extremely pissed at this point and would need to leave Belvie in front of someone else's joint.

Spewing expletives along with spittle from his ethanol-parched lips, he pulled, with angry fingertips, an empty beer bottle from the backseat and hurled it against the Belvedere with all his might.
After what seemed like far more than 3 seconds later, Davey heard the clink and bash of the bottle smash on a property about fifty feet behind him! From that point on, this phenomenon would be known as the 'Belvedere Bounce'.

08/21 Direct Link

To Davey's utter amazement thus far,
no discernible dents were left on the car!
Chalked up hence as just one more testimony
to her rugged construction!
That much was one cogent deduction.

But wait – the night wasn't over yet. Davey, while still fuming from things not going well and his unfavorable reactions to that fact, decided to go on a mini rampage to let off steam, and thus started walking to vent, being so mendaciously hell bent
Up three blocks on the left, he came upon a high school acquaintance's big fat station wagon and decided to somehow vandalize it.

08/22 Direct Link

This would of course fall under the heading of 'highly irrational act', but when was rationality ever in the least present when an ethanol sopper was so sopped? And let's not forgive the ancillary toxins in cheap wine that can make one's internal circuits go even more haywire.

So in short, some lingering resentments remained in Davey's deranged mind that night, and he felt compelled to act on them and create a blight, so he popped the fellow's gas cap and urinated profusely into the tank.
Maybe he poured some stale beer in also.
Hah! The more trouble, the merrier.

08/23 Direct Link

Okay, that part was done.
Now to have some more 'fun'.
The trek to Davey's temporary accommodations at his parents' dank abode would take a while,
so he kept truckin' and cracked a devious smile.

Aha! Next up came another smoldering resentment against a resident who had chewed Davey out for riding a bike across the fellow's lawn years back.
Revenge.
Time to take a crack.

Davey grabbed some rocks and lobbed them onto the person's roof.
After several hit their mark, lights came on at the house just as Davey was falling on his ass after losing his balance.

08/24 Direct Link

Dayum – he couldn't even throw rocks properly! This in and of itself brought an upsurge in the growing sense of failure Davey was carrying.

“Are you touched in the head!?” Came a voice from his target. Davey heard it oh, so clearly, and realized that yes, he was 'touched' in the head, and dearly.

This could have been considered a turning point, yet another watershed moment in Davey's non-evolution from drunken ne'er do well to functional member of society.

He mulled this self-imposed query over and over in what was left of his mind: 'hey, what TF am I doing?'

08/25 Direct Link

Watershed moment or no,
Davey certainly should know
that in this miserable throe
he should let the ethanol GO.

Yeah, it was WATER, alright; it seems that after crashing heavily that monstrous night, Davey got up and pissed on the floor in his sleep. It was a giant puddle, and despite his disbelief and protestations to the contrary, said puddle could not have gotten where it was any other way.

After returning in the daylight (albeit with a vicious, toxin-laden hangover) to put gas in the Belvedere, Davey pondered the options: keep her or ditch her. No choice was clear.

08/26 Direct Link

Oh, she came with few options; manual trans, no a/c, no bucket seats, no-frills am/fm radio, rock-hard dashboard, dry-rotting headboard and a gas gauge that didn't work.
And on the coattails of that revelation, the gas filler was in the rear directly under the license plate, which meant that not only would it spill out if you forgot to replace the cap, but was also a piece of cake to siphon.

This may well have played a role in her running out of gas that horrid night: mischievous miscreants could easily have sucked her lifeblood before Davey got off work.

08/27 Direct Link

That bad design of gasoline filler placement could bode poorly in terms of safety as well. Ralph Nader, you missed one!
Say, for the sake of conjecture, the operator overfilled the gas tank on the Belvedere. Then, if the cap wasn't replaced – and snugly – one could leave a trail of fresh gasoline when pulling forward. And what if the car got rear-ended by an overzealous tailgater? Disaster could await.

But minor quirks aside, you couldn't find a better, more reliable American car in those days. And you didn't have to specifically have a Belvedere; the Dodge Dart was equally stalwart.

08/28 Direct Link

Of all the unrelated factoids in this rambling quixotic so-called essay, the most prominent would be positing that Slant Six clubbers knew better than anyone that one needn't have a Belvedere to get at the old slant six.
But you don't need to know that, dear readers.

Moving on – and back to that storied near and dear tan Belvedere that still had a story so clear: Davey was coming up on another transitional phase of drift-ology.
The 'keep it or ditch it' paradigm continued to percolate in his mottled mind, and had quite frankly become a pain in the behind.

08/29 Direct Link

Now the problem became one of objects: what to do with that box of Guitar Player magazines, Nylon® guitar picks, assorted frumpy clothes, and little else of value – all residing in the Belvedere's surprisingly spacious trunk. Sure, it wasn't much, but was all Davey had. And at this point, having left Renee's joint, he would tenaciously cling to these earthly accoutrements as if they actually DID have value.

So aside from that wondering and worrying, Davey had bigger fish to fry; he was eating at McDonald's a lot and therefore being routinely malnourished. In fact, he felt an internal ROT.

08/30 Direct Link

Oddly enough, Davey also became increasingly paranoid and thought people were following him as he limped along suburban streets in the Belvedere,
Heaven forbid it would be a police car, even though Davey wasn't doing anything much that could be considered illegal; he usually could refrain from driving drunk.
No, that would happen later on, after he parked, sometimes sleeping in the backseat for lack of a better place.

He began to acquire quirks also. One of them was an almost pathological abhorrence toward what he called 'pack driving'.
He stupidly scrawled these sentiments on the bumper sticker-friendly Belvedere trunk.

08/31 Direct Link

It seemed that more and more people were hugging Davey's bumper as he crawled through suburban streets en route to just about nowhere. And they all seemed to be in such a friggin' hurry.

So when Davey noticed he was in a detestable pack of cars – through no fault of his own – he would pull over and let the pack drivers pass, feeling righteously vindictive in his contempt for the others' driving habit patterns.
And that's EXACTLY what they were: habits.
Or should we say ROBOTS?

If all that followed were not lost,
their heads were hollowed,
and headlights tossed.