Wedding Bondo

The break-up of Hasky Tarbox and $erena the Waitress, part two

by Sally Cragin

Illustration by Michelle Barbera

After Hasky Tarbox (of Tarbox Automotive, "Collisions? A Specialty") lost his girlfriend, $erena the Waitress, to the lures of Providence and a certain DeLoverly School of Esthetics, he decided to go to hell.

Of course, going to hell in a big city is easy. In the right (wrong) neighborhood, just a casual stroll will get you all kinds of offers, from narcotics to personal services. Tritown, isolated between glacial wrinkles, offered fewer opportunities for indulging any deadly sins, let alone all seven.

Next door, Hollis the Mountain Man, whose property abutted the sprawling Tarbox yard, was all-too-aware of the heir's misery. The bell-like thuds of hammer hitting metal (Hasky was a pro at banging the dings out of rocker panels) ceased to pierce the calm of the rural neighborhood. Occasionally, a gloomy hirsute figure could be seen trundling down the road to the packy, and instead of returning with six-packs, Hasky would have hoisted a case -- or even more -- onto his slumping shoulders.

But it wasn't until Hollis was browsing the WantADvertiser and came across an eye-catching ad did he know Hasky's condition was serious:

"FOR SALE -- WILL SACRIFICE," he read. "FULL BLOWN BODY REPAIR SHOP BY CRAFTSMAN. ALSO 3 IMPACT WRENCHES, COMPRESSOR(AIR), A MIG WELDER, A 5LB CAN OF BONDO, 100 PIECE SOCKET AND WRENCH SET (MISSING THE 1/2" DRIVE RATCHET AND A HANDFUL OF SOCKETS)." The phone number that followed was immediately familiar to Hollis, as was his recollection of where those sockets had gone. (Hasky had thrown them at Miss Leticia Hawkins's 1981 Fiesta last winter. The car had only 12,000 miles but more rust than steel, and even a pro bodyman like Hasky couldn't weld metal to air, but that's another story.)

The point was, Hollis reminded himself, if Hasky were selling his tools, heartbreak had become terminal.

AT TARBOX AUTOMOTIVE, Old Mrs. Tarbox had little patience for her son's depression, but Old Man Tarbox was surprisingly sympathetic. "Poor guy -- I always knew she was too smaht for Hasky," he told his wife one night in bed. They were whispering with the lights out, but wild gyrating colors from Hasky's newly purchased Advent TV soared up the spiral stairs and spilled into their bed chamber.

"Well, can't blame her after he spent their wedding money on that jumbo television," snapped Mrs. Tarbox.

"He wanted to watch the Olympics!" protested her husband.

"Olympics my foot," came the reply. "Those female snowboarders causing him to drift off to fantasyland. No, we've got to face the fact that our little boy just doesn't want to grow up."

Mr. Tarbox could make no answer. He felt dizzy from the dancing hues of the television light.

Until this episode, the little boy in question (now closer to 300 pounds than 200) actually enjoyed being a grown up. Hunting, fishing, drinking, driving, even voting in town meeting if he were pissed off, gave him a sense of well-being far greater than he'd known in school. And his beloved -- now lost to him -- girlfriend, $erena, had been pretty great too. He snapped open another beer and rubbed the beard growth on his cheeks. His eyes flickered and then closed, and gently the beer can levered out of his hand. A thin stream of amber ale poured into the shredded arm of the easy chair. Hasky shifted in his somnolence but didn't rise.

Hollis the Mountain Man rubbed a clear spot in the living room window, hoping Hasky might find an interesting channel, with perhaps partial nudity, but Hasky's slumbering finger rested on the QVC station. Then Hollis quietly tiptoed back to the Mountain Lair.

Hasky was annoying, obnoxious, drunkardly, but a superb mechanic; and Hollis's truck was grinding in a new and strange manner. The man was going to lose his magic touch with machines if he continued drinking himself into a stupor, thought Hollis, shaking his head ruefully.

THE NEXT DAY, DELIA Ellis Bell the Partial Yankee (there was a questionable great-great-grandmother) came tootling up the drive to bring her spring offering, a pint of extra-dark maple syrup. "Fresh out of the tree!" she gloated. "Well, out of the tree, into the bucket, into the boiler, into the bottle. But you know what I mean."

"Thanks," Hollis replied abstractedly. He poured a tot in his coffee and offered to do the same for her. "Hollis, you got a chill?" she asked.

"Just thinking about Hasky," he said. "What a loser -- he's up there now sleeping off his last drunk, and the cars are starting to spill out of the yard onto my property."

"What, you afraid it's going to increase the valuation and up your property tax?" she smirked. "Nah, I know what you mean. I got a postcard from $erena, who loves her classes at DeLoverly and is learning everything about henna and permanents."

"Oh great," laughed Hollis. "Like her hair could possibly be any redder or curlier."

"For the customers," Delia replied. "So Hasky is still down in the dumps?"

"Yeah," said Hollis and showed her the WantADvertiser.

Delia read in silence. "Man, he's losing it," she said.

"No kiddin'," Hollis replied. "It's worse than the time he saw that matchbook that read: `The Skoal Bandit needs a new pit crew and bodywork specialists.' He was convinced he was headed for the Indy 500, but he ended up heading for that oak tree on the hairpin turn on the Post Road."

Delia looked at the ad again. "Even selling the `Bondo,'" she murmured. "By the way, what's `Bondo'?"

"Epoxy used in final stages of bodywork," said Hollis. "After getting the metal back to nearly perfect, the plastic filler is used to smooth any imperfections -- which there always is in body repair."

A small, sly grin spread across Delia's face. "What a perfect image," she said. "Well, Hollis, looks like it's up to us to make sure Hasky has a chance to apply Bondo to this punctured romance. Better call that number quick."

Hollis furrowed his brow. Other people's personal lives were fascinating, but only at a distance. Then again, the grinding engine of his truck had added a high-pitched whine when he hit 30 miles an hour. Hasky was his best hope.

"Let's do it," he said quickly. Principles were fine, but always outranked by trustworthy transportation.

Thanks to Andre Goguen for technical assistance.

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