Trade Off

by Rev. Felix Roy Mariposa

Why was I willing to give up a Camaro for a vehicle I called the Tonka Truck? Because the Camaro had a Blue Book value of $2,400, and the newer truck was worth over five grand. And five grand was today's magic number.

Jerry Klemperer, younger of the two Klemperer brothers came out from the lot's garage when he saw me pull up off of MacArthur Boulevard, Oakland's meandering artery connecting the best parts of town with the worst. As always, Jerry was smirking. His brother Jack was nowhere in sight. So far, as expected.

"I suppose you want to see it." Jerry led me to the rear of the lot; I had noticed the tarp covering one car towards the back. There was an unveiling.

This car hadn't been out of a garage in thirty years. That much I could tell instantly. I admit it, I stared at it a while. But a 1965 Plymouth Fury III is a thing of beauty. And when the car in question is also a Battalion Chief Police Interceptor Model, that makes it worthy of the Louvre (at least, it does to admirers of vintage Chryslers like myself -- but not the I. M. Pei part of the Louvre, too modern, what with the glass pyramid and all). The red and blue lights on the car's roof, fully operational I was assured, glinted in the late morning sun.

Jerry was watching me stare, probably with a bit of vicarious enthusiasm. "Isn't one enough for you?"

Reasonable question. I already had a '66 Fury III (black, red & chrome racing stripe, 318 cubic inch engine - they don't make 'em like that anymore). I gave him a 'you know me' look.

"You know that Jack only took this thing because he knew he could get you to buy it." Again, Jerry smirked, but it was a different, darker smirk. I opened the hood, leaned over for a look inside.

"Hey, good business sense."

"Yeah; sure. Uh-huh." Jerry looked across the lot for a moment, apparently at the row of unsold, uniformly rectangular Volvo station wagons to our left. "It's good business sense, like buying them damn tanks... anyway, have a look at this."

"Woah, four barrel carburetor? What kind of mileage can this thing get?"

"You want mileage, get one of those." Back to the Volvos.

"Hey, just so I know how much premium gas this behemoth will be sucking down... I mean, it's a 383 cubic inch, right?"

"Yeah... you know that's bigger than some of the race cars I used to drive. I dunno, ten miles a gallon. Did I ever tell you I was in one of those Herbie movies?"

I looked up at Jerry, a little thrown. "You mean that Volkswagen bug in the Disney movies?" 'Herbie' was a little before my time; I'd seen a couple of them as a kid, maybe five years old. I was toying with the spotlight on the driver's side of the car.

"Yeah! The Love Bug." A chuckle. "No, they filmed a race I was in, and then they put the Beetle in it, you know, superimposed it so it looked like it was outracing all of us. Highlight of my career."

"Get any money from that?" I asked; I think extras get some pay, something about SAG rules.

"Nah, I lost that race." Jerry glanced at the squat building (a hut, really) with the sign 'Office' over the door; inside, the half that was Jerry's had photos from his racing days. Jack's half had his old boxing photos. There was a sturdy wall in between the two. I knew this from prior visits; as long as my family had lived in Oakland we'd bought all our cars from Klemperer Used Cars; it started with the nearly-new '48 Packard my grandfather bought from Jack and Jerry's dad, Werner.

Over the past ten years I doubt Jerry's office had changed (although to be fair, in my visits I had only really paid attention around here after getting a driver's license). There were the racing pictures, some of them with Jerry in them, or at least that's what he said; under the helmet and goggles, taken at a distance, motion shots, it was hard to tell. Not like Jack's old boxing photos, every shot a potential movie still. All of Jerry's photos were of his racing days; the most recent one was taken in 1974.

Dominating a corner of the room, the antique gas pump, an expensive and space-consuming decoration. I had heard Jack complain that it still smelled like gasoline, which meant that Jerry would never get rid of it. Sometimes, sometimes not, on the shelf behind his tiny but bare desk was a cardboard box with some fireworks of dubious origin, a supplement to Jerry's income. Since Jack handled the business side of the lot, Jerry didn't really need an office; even his phone was in the garage. The office wasn't where today's Jerry Klemperer worked.

"Is Jack in?" I asked. "I should get this wrapped up quick; I shouldn't be away from Reed any longer than I have to be."

"Ahh, why go back?" He'd made this offer last time I was here. "I'll teach you how to work on cars." And the time before that. "Work here for a while, then get a real job." Every time I was here for about the last five years.

"Jer, if I wanted a real job, would I be going to a liberal arts college?" A shared chuckle. "Besides, I already know how to work on cars. Remember those courses at College of Alameda I took?"

"Uh-huh, yeah; sure." Jerry slammed down the hood of the cop car. "Jack's inside."

Walking over to the office-hut door, I idly ran my hand along the wall of the building. Yosemite Sam was painted there, pistols raised, daring me to do anything varmint-like; other Looney Tunes notables were painted here and there around the lot; Porky Pig trying to get the words out without stu-stu-stu-impediment, Daffy looking as frustrated as ever, Bugs with with a "What's Up, Doc" expression on his wascally wabbit face -- but this is Oakland, that should be "Wassup?". I forget who painted them. If I asked Jack, he'd probably take credit; but if I asked Jerry, he would point out he, not Jack, did the bulk of the work. If this was mentioned to Jack, then Jack would say he had made the stencils, which was something Jerry would reluctantly acknowledge, probably with a backhanded insult.

Jack was in his office. He waved me in when he saw me come through the front door.

"And how is mother?" Jack asked, speaking more slowly and deeply than his brother. The unusual formal tone he always used, for some reason it sounded natural for Jack. But that didn't make it less conspicuous.

"Oh, fine. Happy about getting the Camaro again." I sat. Jack's office was larger than Jerry's, but as actual business was conducted in it, it was much more cluttered. Piles of paper here, rows of keys there, and an old typewriter in the corner.

"Now, let's see..." Jack started; the rest was mutterings I couldn't quite hear as he dug around on his desk for the right paperwork. As usual, I killed the time by looking at the photos and news clippings that covered every flat surface in the room; even the desk had mementos under a glass pane.

A brief sketch of Klemperer family history could probably be traced from these clippings. Start over in the corner, with the photos of a very young Werner and his just-opened car lot. I think my grandfather is in one of those. Then the odd high-school photo of Jack bridging the gap to the boxing years. This took up most of a wall by itself -- news clippings about amateur (later, semi-pro) boxer Jack Klemperer and his latest stunning win. Most of the photos here were Jack in mid-throw of the knockout punch; great stuff for the front of the hometown paper's sports section. Then the photos of Jack as a referee, dated by the unfashionable size of his black bowtie. Then nothing, save the odd travel snap from Germany.

Jack seemed to find the right paper. Jerry was in none of the photos. Though he might occasionally seem a little doddering, Jack still had it together. He read off the paper all the intricacies of today's deal.

"So we're taking the '94 truck for $5400, $5000 of which is going immediately to the Plymouth, and the $400 a down-payment on...?"

"That Geo Storm." I answered, reflecting that Jack's slow monotone was probably an advantage in striking deals; you could easily stop listening to the words and start nodding. "I still need to get around."

"Yes, mother tells me college is going well for you." In the years I've known Jack, he's never said 'your mother.' I don't know why. His own mother died ten years ago. I remember Jerry gloating about the will. Unpleasant. And things like that never got better.

" 'Sallright."

"Yes, well, as you know, I didn't go. Went straight into boxing after high school." And then he picked today's photo to deliver a monologue on. As I half-listened, I wondered how he picked which photo to reminisce about at this point in the conversation; each time I'd been here he'd rambled about a different one.

At the conclusion of the monologue, it was time to sign the forms. Finally. A few minutes later I was the proud owner of a vintage Police interceptor. Jack handed me the keys.

"Well, I'm eager." I said, smiling. "Can't wait to try out that four barrel carb."

Jack looked at me blankly. I stood up to leave.

"The carburetor design, Jack. It makes it accelerate really fast."

"Oh. Well, give mother my best."

I gave Jerry a wave as I pulled out. The engine purred menacingly. Leaving the lot, I looked in the mirror; Jerry returned to work on a Volvo, while Jack remained in his office.

They hadn't spoken to each other in 6 years.

--Posted on The Great Hoboes of New York on May 1, 2006