Chapter 29

FRISBEE LUONGO

With Moncho out to lunch, I’m taking the opportunity to inventory the repair jobs in the yard. We have a lot of work lined up. We have more than enough drive-in’s, tow-in’s, and insurance jobs to keep the shop up and running. My only problem, I have already estimated the damages on all the cars, and made a list of the body parts I need to order, but I misplaced the list. I’m tired of running back and forth to the office; I’ll wait for Moncho to get back from lunch; maybe he’ll remember what I did with it.

While using the “eeny-meeny-miney-moe” version of selecting which wreck I should push into the shop and work on next, a minivan leaves the flow of traffic and pulls onto the lot. I see it’s one of those Disney minivans; the type with all the bells and whistles for kids; movies, games, a food concession or whatever!

The driver steps out to meet me. He’s tall, thin, and pale with khaki shorts, brown loafers, and a yellow windbreaker with a designer logo on it; obviously an out-of-state history teacher. He extends his hand.

”Hello sir, my name is Professor Luongo.”

I shake his hand, “I’m Mr. Ponticello, but you can call me Matt. What’s up?”

“My name is Peter, you can call me Peter,” he stammers at my sarcasm, “We were in traffic, and my car overheated.”

“Yeah,” I shrug, “There’s a lot of traffic right now. A guy got hit by a car a little while ago.”

Peter jerks back, surprised of my making light of such a tragedy. He immediately turns from me and calls into the van, “Honey, can you and the children come out here please?”

The family hustles from the van and lines up as though falling in at boot camp. “Is there anything wrong?” The wife asks.

“I want to tell you that this gentleman told me a harrowing tale of a young man hit by a car on this very street, only moments ago.” Peter talks as though he’s the grand high-exalted mystic ruler of the drama queen convention.

The family lets loose a group gasp.

“This should be a lesson for us all,” he continues, “Whether we are at one of our houses in the country, in Europe, or in Hawaii, or whether we are at our townhouse in the city, always remember, never play in the street.” He pauses and singles out his son, “And that goes double for you young man.”

“And what about Diskus?” the son asks.

“That is a special no-no boo-boo for you to care for. Always make sure he does not have a reason to run in the street.” Peter opens his eyes wide, “I depend on you son, to keep an eye on that.”

“Okay dad,” the son says proudly.

The skinny wife with the bony knees puts her hands to her mouth, “Is he okay?” She asks, “Was it a bad accident?”

“Yeah, he’s okay,” I answer, “No big deal. He got a few cuts and scratches. He’ll live.”

The Luongo’s exchange glances. I could tell they originate from an upscale neighborhood where nobody curses, or they’d think to themselves, "Wow, this guy really doesn’t give a fucking rat’s ass!"

Peter clears his throat, “Well, while we are all out here, I would like to introduce my family.”

I looks pass his family and into the van. A small dog constantly barks: Yip yip yip yip. Yip yip yip yip, and looks like it’s having a spazzo-fit, doing flips from the rear of the van to the front.

“This is my wife Sandy, and these are our lovely children, Abigail and Frisbee.”

They’re not from around here. I could envision Sandy as a scrawny middle-aged elementary school guidance counselor. I could see that a million miles away. I have a kid in school. Their daughter Abigail is a 5-year old princess dressed in pink, and Frisbee is a 12-year old chubby boy with short, spiked hair and a horizontally striped shirt that makes him look even fatter.

“Frisbee?” I laugh, “That’s a neat nickname.”

“That is my real name,” Frisbee says proudly.

“Yes,” Peter injects, “It took some doing, but we had his name changed through the courts.”

“Frisbee Luongo,” I ruffle the spoiled brat’s hair, “I like that; it has a nice ring to it.”

“Now, I want to introduce you to our pride and joy,” Peter says. He opens the door of the van and grapples with the hyperactive dog. “This is our Jack Russell Terrier. This rascal’s name is Diskus. He is the reason why we are making this road trip.”

“We are going to the Nationals,” Frisbee Luongo boasts, “I am the County champion.”

“Wow,” I act impressed, “The Nationals, that’s great….For what.”

“Frisbee,” Peter answers. He ruffles Frisbee Luongo’s hair. “This young lad is the County champ. He has thrown Frisbees since he was a year old.”

“Wow, that’s cool.”

Frisbee Luongo tugs on his father’s shorts, “Dad, show him Diskus.”

“Watch this,” Peter says to me. He puts the dog on the ground. “Spring feet!” He commands.

The Jack Russell Terrier leaps three feet straight up like a Harrier Jet, comes back to the ground, and bounces upward again as though it’s on a trampoline.

“Spring feet flip!” Frisbee Luongo yells out a command.

This time the dog bounces upward, does a complete flip, and lands on his feet before bouncing back up and repeating the acrobat.

“We are the County champs,” Frisbee Luongo repeats, “And we are going to the Nationals.”

“Well then,” I smile, “Let’s see if we can get you there.” I pop the hood of the van and peer into the engine compartment. “Here’s your problem; your fan belt snapped.”

“Oh my goodness,” exclaims Sandy, “Is that bad?”

Peter scans the lot, and then eyeballs the signage, “I see this is an auto body repair shop. Do you know of a mechanic who can fix my car?”

“I have belts here,” I say, “I could fix it.”

“You can?” Sandy asks, and then snivels.

I notice her running eyes “Are you okay?”

“Allergies. This hot weather kills me. My nose and eyes constantly run.” She blows her nose into a hanky from her purse. “I hope my sniveling does not annoy you.”

“Around here?” I laugh, “It takes more than sniveling to annoy me.”

“Do you want me to pull the van into your shop?” asks Peter.

“That’s okay; I’ll do it out here. I’m used to this heat.”

I find the proper fan belt with no problem. I remove a half-inch wrench from the toolbox, and go into the office where Moncho keeps his pry bar aptly named “El Palillo Arruinador: The Wrecking Stick.”

Born from hardened and tempered forged alloy steel, the wrecking stick is four foot long, four square inches in diameter, and weighs more than fifty pounds. Many times, I’ve seen it tear roofs from cars, floors from cars, and the cars themselves twisted and ripped off their frames.

I feel the heat and the weight of the crowbar the moment I step out of the office.

“What is that?” Peter asks.

I hold the crowbar to the Gods as though I expect lightning to hit it, “This is the Louisville Slugger of crowbars,” I boast, “All I have to do is place this near the bracket, loosen the bracket, and slip on the belt. You’ll be out of here and back on the road in no time.”

“Can I watch TV, mommy?” Abigail asks.

“Can she?” Sandy looks for Peter’s decision because her husband doesn’t allow her to make decisions on her own. “She gets bored; it will keep her busy and she will probably fall asleep.”

“The motor’s not going to be on, is it?” I ask, “Or the electric, right?”

“No,” Peter answers, “We have a separate switch for the entertainment. He reaches inside the van and flips a switch on the dashboard.

“I’m going to watch the Fairy Pixie,” Abigail says to me.

“Wow,” I cry out gleefully, “I don’t think I ever saw that one.”

“It’s about a little doll who flies into a classroom, and all the girls call it a little fairy, but all the boys say it’s not  a little fairy; it’s a pixie.”

“Wow that sounds good.”

“And then the girls all say together, it’s a fairy, it’s a fairy, it’s a fairy. Then all the boys say together, no, it’s a pixie, it’s a pixie, it’s a pixie.”

“And what do you say it is?”

“I say it’s a fairy.”

“Okay, come on honey.” Sandy escorts Abigail to the van and sets her up in the car seat to watch TV.

A Frisbee hits the fender – Plngk.

Frisbee Luongo’s toss prompts Diskus to bark the irritating bark all small dogs make, especially those little hyperactive fuckers I love to drop kick into the next time zone – Yip yip yip yip. Yip yip yip yip.

After I insert the crowbar in its proper place in the motor, I direct my gaze to my left; Sandy snivels constantly while blowing her runny nose. I then cock my head and direct my gaze to the right; Peter hovers over the fender and helps me remove a few pieces of the old fan belt.

“Honey,” he talks across me, “Make sure the windows are all open; it is over one hundred degrees.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” I mutter under my breath.

After Sandy rolls down all the windows, Abigail uses the TV remote to raise the volume. The group of girls machine-guns the words, “It’s a fairy! It’s a fairy! It’s a fairy!”

In rapid retaliation, the boys scream, “It’s a pixie! It’s a pixie! It’s a pixie!”

The argument continues, “It’s a fairy! It’s a fairy! It’s a fairy! It’s a pixie! It’s a pixie! It’s a pixie!”

Abigail chooses her side and screams, “It’s a fairy! It’s a fairy! It’s a fairy!”

Yip yip yip yip. Yip yip yip yip.

Plngk – Once again, I hear the light thump on the fender of the van as a Frisbee bounce off it. Frisbee Luongo picks up the Frisbee and tosses it again and again and again – Plngk, Plngk, Plngk.

“What are you trying to hit?” I ask.

The kid shrugs.

“Be careful not to hit the nice man.,” says Peter.

Again, Frisbee Luongo shrugs.

Although the dog continues barking, and Frisbee Luongo keeps tossing the Frisbee, I could hear the clicking of the remote as Abigail consistently rewinds the movie so she could argue with her side of the class, “It’s a fairy! It’s a fairy! It’s a fairy! It’s a pixie! It’s a pixie! It’s a pixie!”

Yip yip yip yip. Yip yip yip yip.

I relax the crowbar and light a cigarette. Sandy and Peter exchange glances.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, that is bad for you. My Uncle Michael died of lung cancer.”

Plngk, Plngk, Plngk

“Darling,” Peter speaks across me to his wife, “Did we lose Aunt Emma to lung cancer also?”

“Yes, but that was from a second-hand smoke.”

Yip yip yip yip. Yip yip yip yip.

“And her husband Louis got cancer from the Asbestos plant in town.”

“I know he did not smoke cigarettes, but he did smoke cigars.”

“He smoked a pipe.”

“I am sure he has had a cigar or two in his day.”

“It’s a fairy! It’s a fairy! It’s a fairy! It’s a pixie! It’s a pixie! It’s a pixie!”

I start with the crowbar again, putting pressure on it while trying to loosen a nut on the alternator bracket. Sweat runs from my forehead to my chin. I don’t want to release my grip on the tools. Therefore, I twist like a contortionist, using my shoulder to wipe the sweat from my face.

“No I don’t think so. I did watch him light a beautiful hand-made pipe carved out of cherry wood.”

“Peter honey, I am so glad you never took up smoking.”

“I never will. You and the children are much too important to me.”

Plngk, Plngk, Plngk

I bow my head and close my eyes for a second because the salt in my sweat stings them. That’s when I hear a deep, scratchy voice, “Hey.”

I look up to see a tattered black man dressed in non-fitting clothes, standing beside Sandy.

“Hey man, you got another one of those?” He points at my cigarette.

Sandy shakes timidly. I tell the bum to get lost.

Yip yip yip yip. Yip yip yip yip.

“It’s a fairy! It’s a fairy! It’s a fairy! It’s a pixie! It’s a pixie! It’s a pixie!”

I take a hard hit on the cigarette, and cough.

“Have you had that cough checked out by your doctor?”

“Yes,” I answer, “I’m okay.” I have the bracket nut loose.

“I remember the guy on that TV show. He never smoked, and he ate only health food, and he died of lung cancer.”

The bum reaches across Sandy and puts his fingers in my top pocket. “You don’t have another one of those?”

“Touch me again, and I’ll beat you with this crowbar.”

Plngk, Plngk, Plngk

“If you do not smoke, you should not start.”

“Where did you get that cigarette from?’

“I remember when that guy died. Who was that? What was his name?”

“I think he looked like Elvis Presley.”

“Did you check your pockets to see if you have any more smokes?”

Yip yip yip yip. Yip yip yip yip.

“Oh now I remember. Remember he used to walk into the bar and everybody called out his name?”

“It’s a fairy! It’s a fairy! It’s a fairy! It’s a pixie! It’s a pixie! It’s a pixie!”

“I do not think so, honey. That may have been a different show.”

“I spent my last bit of change on a sandwich this morning. Now I need some change for a loosie; unless you have an extra cigarette.”

I struggle to keep the pressure on the crowbar. I almost have the new fan belt on. A Frisbee hits me between the eyes, bounces off my face, and lands on the motor. I take a deep breath and tell myself to stay in control. I can’t let this bother me; I don’t let this bother me. I simply pick up the Frisbee and toss it over my shoulder.

Frisbee Luongo gasps, “Wow,” with alarm.

We follow the flight of the Frisbee. The disk no sooner leaves my hand when it catches a pocket of a mild summer wind, resting on it as though it rested on a pillow crafted by God. It’s as though a spiritual entity grasps it, and guides it through the air. The disk floats gently into a U-turn and heads toward the driveway, occasionally stopping to hover for a second before continuing its trek.

As fate has it, Moncho, returns from lunch, and pulls out of the traffic and onto the lot. Being a short man, he barely sees over the steering wheel of his old, rust-encrusted Buick Wildcat. He keeps both hands on the top of the steering wheel and manages to steer the car into the yard while holding a cup of coffee in each hand. With the sun glaring down on his windshield, we see a dazzling whiteout; a fiery brilliance hazing the silhouette of a big head with a set of horns bearing down to obliterate anything in its path.

What the fuck! God knows what possesses Frisbee Luongo to yell, “SPRING FEET FLIP!”

Swiftly, unexpectedly, Diskus springs skyward in a leap that would set a record at the Nationals. Not only does he do a flip; he adds a backward twist, and snatches the Frisbee in midair. He then falls to Earth headfirst in the path of Moncho’s Buick. His head crunches against the massive chrome bumper, and then bounces violently under the chassis before squishing under the rear tire.

Moncho stops the car. Unaware of the catastrophe, he holds the two cups of coffee out of the window, “Matt, mucho happy,” he smiles proudly, “Angelo nos dio libre café hoy; coffee free today! No money!”