Marc Berley
from Rust
I took a leg. My brother took an arm. The old man’s legs were bent. His arms were crossed, pulled like ribs into his chest. I started shouting at the old man. Nothing base or unforgivable, only true particulars about his Ford to make the old man get out up from under it.
My brother had to shout, too.
I kept taking a leg. I kept pulling harder. I fell down, struggled to regain my grip, felt for the old man’s ankles, grappled my way back up, onto my feet, started pulling again, kept pulling. “He’s devout!” I said to my brother.
My brother, it appeared, was trying to torque the arms. But the old man wasn’t having any of it.
The old man grabbed something on the Ford, outwitted my brother, took hold, held on. Who knows what he held—or thought he held?
Motor-mount? Drive-shaft? Chassis?
“It’s no use. Fords rust!” I said.
Which is true. I am no liar. On this, inasmuch as he is truthful about anything, God himself bears me out.