TumbleDweeeb

Mad Mechanics: Friday Night Fever
Written by: Emmitt Owens
*As narrated by: Waylon*
Episode 6.5

Waylon, Intro: “Well now, folks, let me tell you about the Friday night that turned the Buzzard Roost VFW Hall into the wildest hootenanny this side of Nashville. It all started when Chester figured the boys had been workin’ so hard, they deserved a night out on the town—or what passes for ‘the town’ in a place where the biggest excitement most days is watchin’ Old Pete feed pigeons from his bench. Now, picture this: when the boys from the garage decide to clean up and hit the town, it’s like watchin’ a nature documentary on peacocks preenin’ for mating season. Each one’s got his own style, and let me tell you—some of those styles are more successful than others.”

   Back at the garage, the pre-party preparation was a sight to behold. Chester stood in front of a cracked mirror, carefully shavin’ with what appeared to be 10W-30 motor oil, a Camel non-filtered danglin’ from his lips. “Only thing slicker than this is Stephanie’s smile,” he said outloud, admirn’ his reflection and tappin’ ash into an old coffee can.
   Meanwhile, Reedus was in the corner installin’ chrome flame decals on his cowboy boots with timing belt precision. “If you’re gonna make an entrance,” he declared, “might as well light up the room from the ground up!”
   Gutglor was hunched over his mason jars, checkin’ the temperature of his moonshine with a meat thermometer like he was bakin’ a prize-winning turkey. “Perfect sippin’ temperature,” he muttered with satisfaction.
   Gary, bless his heart, was sniffin’ through a pile of flannel shirts like a bloodhound, tryin’ to find one that smelled least like gasoline. “This one’s only got a hint of carburetor cleaner,” he announced hopefully, holdin’ up a red plaid number.
   Professor Thibodaux emerged from the office wearin’ his bow tie and suspenders, lookin’ like he’d stepped out of a history book, while Axl supervised the whole operation from his perch on a workbench, probably wonderin’ why humans made such a fuss about social gatherings.
   The VFW Hall was all decked out for their monthly dance, which was always a cross between a hoedown and an episode of Hee Haw, complete with fiddle music, square dancin’, and enough flannel shirts to outfit a lumber camp. The stage was set up with a three-piece band called “The Grease Monkeys” – which seemed mighty appropriate given the guest list.
       “Boys!” Gutglor announced, unloadin’ mason jars that caught the evenin’ light like liquid amber, “I brought some of my finest pecan maple barrel moonshine – aged a whole six months! Plus fried chicken that’ll make you weep tears of joy, and somethin’ special I been workin’ on.”
   He pulled out a collection of small bags filled with what looked like dried leaves. “Mater Weed!” he announced proudly. “My best homegrown soup maters, dried to perfection. Just add hot water and you got yourself soup worthy of a king!”
       “Mater Weed?” Gary asked, examinin’ one of the bags.
     “Like tea leaves, but better,” Gutglor explained. “It’s revolutionary food technology.”
   The Professor adjusted his spectacles. “That’s… actually quite innovative. Dehydrated vegetables for portable soup preparation.”
       “See?” Gutglor beamed. “The Professor gets it.”
   About that time, a 2007 Avalanche pulled into the gravel parking lot with a rumble that announced its arrival, followed by the familiar sound of an old ’67 Chevy pickup truck. Out of the Avalanche stepped Karlee from the Chill n’ Fill, wearin’ a red spaghetti strap shirt, cut-off shorts, and cowboy boots that clicked against the gravel with authority. Bob climbed out of his classic Chevy, lookin’ comfortable in a flannel shirt, well-worn jeans, and work boots that had seen more miles than a traveling salesman.
       “Evenin’, boys!” Karlee called out, wavin’ like she was greetin’ long-lost relatives. “Hope y’all saved us some dancin’ room!”
   Bob just grinned and nodded, adjustin’ his flannel shirt and catchin’ the light from the VFW’s neon sign.
      “Nice rides,” Chester said, admirin’ both vehicles. “That Avalanche’s got some presence, and Bob, that ’67’s a beauty.”
     “She’s been good to me,” Bob said proudly, pattin’ the side of his truck. “Takes care of her and she takes care of you.”
   Right behind them came another familiar face – Jennifer, who worked part-time at various establishments around town, accompanied by a thin fella in coveralls who looked like he knew his way around mechanical equipment.
      “Hey y’all!” Jennifer called out cheerfully. “This here’s Tommy, he’s the fountain drink technician for half the county. Fixes soda machines like y’all fix cars.”
   Tommy nodded shyly and held up a toolbox. “Never know when somebody might need a Coca-Cola dispenser adjusted,” he said with the dedication of a true craftsman.
   As the evening got underway, the VFW Hall filled up with folks from all over Buzzard Roost and the surroundin’ countryside. The Grease Monkeys were playin’ a lively mix of country classics and dance tunes, and couples were two-steppin’ around the floor like their lives depended on it.
   Reedus had arrived fashionably late, carryin’ what appeared to be a collection of random electronic components and automotive parts. “Boys,” he announced with the excitement of a mad scientist, “tonight we’re gonna turn this place into a proper dance hall!”
   Before anyone could stop him, Reedus had started assemblyin’ what could generously be called a “disco ball” from a chrome air cleaner cover, some Christmas lights, and enough mirrors to outfit a funhouse. He rigged up spotlights using headlights from a ’76 Monte Carlo and a car battery, creating a light show that would’ve made Studio 54 jealous.
      “Reedus,” the Professor said, watchin’ this detailed engineering project with fascination, “that’s remarkably creative, if potentially hazardous.”
    “Hazardous is my middle name!” Reedus replied cheerfully, pluggin’ in his creation. The makeshift disco ball started spinnin’, throwin’ sparkles of light around the VFW Hall like mechanical fairy dust.
   The crowd let out a collective “ooh” and “ahh,” and suddenly the Buzzard Roost VFW Hall felt like the fanciest nightclub in Alabama.

Intermission: “Now folks, just when everything was goin’ smooth as butter on a hot biscuit, the evening took a turn that would be remembered in Buzzard Roost folklore for generations to come.”

   The VFW Hall doors opened, and in walked Stephanie Davis, wearin’ a sundress that could’ve stopped traffic in Birmingham and boots that clicked across the wooden floor like a rhythm section. Every conversation in the place came to a screeching halt, and even the Grease Monkeys missed a few notes.
      “Well, hey there, everyone!” Stephanie called out with that smile that could melt engine blocks. “Hope y’all don’t mind if I join the party!”
   The band went to break to recover from their momentary lapse, while the DJ struck up the opening notes of the Cupid Shuffle, and Stephanie’s face lit up like Christmas morning.
      “Oh, I love this song!” she declared, heading straight for the dance floor.
   What happened next was like watchin’ poetry in motion, if poetry involved line dancin’ and could cause grown men to forget their own names. Stephanie started doin’ the Cupid Shuffle with moves so smooth they could’ve been patented, and every eye in the VFW Hall was glued to her like she was the eighth wonder of the world.
   The reaction was immediate and profound. Mrs. Henderson dropped her slice of apple pie, which hit the floor with a splat that echoed through the suddenly silent hall. Gutglor paused mid-bite on a drumstick, chicken grease drippin’ down his chin as his jaw went slack. Old Pete’s dentures clicked back into place with an audible snap, and somewhere near the back, a fiddle player missed his note so badly it sounded like a cat gettin’ its tail stepped on.
   Chester tried to play it cool but ended up walkin’ into a table, nearly droppin’ his cigarette in the process. Gary attempted to ask someone to dance and accidentally propositioned the coat rack. Professor Thibodaux pulled out his pocket notebook and started takin’ notes like he was documentin’ a new species.
   Even Tommy the fountain drink technician was so distracted he walked into a wall and dropped his toolbox, scatterin’ soda machine parts across the floor with a crash that sounded like a mechanical avalanche.
   Now while everyone was still starin’ at Stephanie like she’d invented dancin’, Chester found himself driftin’ over toward Karlee’s Avalanche in the parking lot, cigarette danglin’ from his lips as he admired the truck’s lines.
       “That’s a fine piece of machinery,” Chester said, runnin’ his hand along the hood. “What you got under there?”
   Gary and the Professor wandered over too, drawn by their natural curiosity about anything with an engine.
   Karlee grinned and popped the hood with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what she was showin’ off. “5.3 liter V8, but I’ve done some modifications,” she said casually.
   The boys peered in and their jaws collectively hit the gravel. The engine bay was pristine, but more importantly, it was clearly customized with performance upgrades that would make a NASCAR mechanic jump with joy.
      “Holy carburetor,” Gary whispered. “Is that a supercharger?”
    “Sure is,” Karlee replied, leanin’ against the fender. “Cold air intake, performance exhaust, upgraded ECU. She’ll do zero to sixty in about four and a half seconds.”
   Chester nearly swallowed his cigarette. “You did this work yourself?”
      “Most of it,” Karlee shrugged. “Daddy taught me engines before I could properly hold a wrench. Figured if I’m gonna drive it, I might as well know how it works.”
   Professor Thibodaux adjusted his spectacles, clearly impressed. “The precision of this installation is remarkable. Where did you source the supercharger kit?”
      “Built it myself from a junkyard blower and some creative engineering,” Karlee said with a wink. “Sometimes the best parts are the ones nobody else wants.”
   Just then, the sound of Lester Flatt’s “Drink That Mash Talk That Trash” drifted out from the VFW Hall’s open doors, the bluegrass melody minglin’ with the evening air like it was made for moments just like this – good engines, good company, and the promise of a memorable night.
      “Now that’s my kind of music,” Karlee grinned, tappin’ her boot to the rhythm while the boys continued marvelin’ over her engine work. “Nothing like some good bluegrass to go with good machinery and honest craftsmanship.”
   Chester nodded, his cigarette bobbin’ as he kept time with the tune. “Lester Flatt knew how to tell a story, that’s for sure. Man could make a banjo sing truths.”
      “Fits the evening perfectly,” Professor Thibodaux observed, adjustin’ his spectacles as the music seemed to make even the chrome under Karlee’s hood gleam a little brighter.
   About that time, Gutglor wandered over with his mason jar and a bag of his famous Mater Weed, overhearing the mechanical discussion.
      “Karlee!” he called out. “You gotta try my latest creation – revolutionary food technology!”
   Karlee looked at the bag of dried leaves with the same analytical eye she’d just used on engine components. “What exactly am I lookin’ at here, Gutglor?”
      “Mater Weed!” Gutglor announced proudly. “Dried tomatoes for instant soup. Just add hot water!”
   Karlee examined the bag more closely, then started laughin’ so hard she had to lean against her truck for support. “Gutglor, honey, you just invented somethin’ that’s been around since World War II. They call it dehydrated vegetables.”
      “But this is special,” Gutglor protested. “I grew these tomatoes myself!”
    “And I’m sure they’re delicious,” Karlee said, still chuckling as they stepped back into the VFW hall, the buzz of conversation and faint twang of country music wrapping around them. “But callin’ it ‘Mater Weed’ makes it sound like you’re sellin’ somethin’ that’ll get the sheriff’s attention for all the wrong reasons.”
   Right on cue, as if the universe had a sense of timing, Reedus fired up his makeshift disco ball at that exact moment. The chrome air cleaner cover started spinnin’, and one of his jury-rigged spotlights swung around and hit Karlee square in the face, blindin’ her temporarily.
      “Whoa there, Vegas!” Karlee called out, stumblin’ backward and accidentally knockin’ into Gutglor, who stumbled into Gary, who bumped into Chester, who dropped his cigarette, which landed right in the bag of Mater Weed.
     “Fire! Fire! Fire!” Reedus yelled, as the dried tomato leaves started smokin’.
   Chester quickly stomped out his cigarette, scatterin’ Mater Weed all over the dance floor like confetti. Karlee, still half-blinded by Reedus’s spotlight, started dancin’ around tryin’ to avoid the scattered vegetables, her cowboy boots clickin’ against the linoleum in a rhythm that was part Texas two-step, part Irish jig, and part interpretive dance about fire safety.
       “Turn off the light!” she hollered, still jumpin” around the floor.
     “I’m tryin’!” Reedus yelled back. “This thing’s got more switches than a NASA control panel!”
   The spotlight kept sweepin’ around like a mechanical lighthouse, catchin’ Karlee in its beam every few seconds as she continued her dance routine. To anyone watchin’, it looked like she was puttin’ on her own personal burlesque show.
   Professor Thibodaux was frantically tryin’ to sweep up the scattered Mater Weed with his hands while Chester looked for his cigarette and Gary tried to figure out if anything was actually on fire.
       “This is like a three-ring circus!” Karlee laughed, finally catchin’ her breath as Reedus managed to redirect his spotlight away from Karlee. “Y’all sure know how to show a girl a good time!”
     “Sorry about that,” Chester said sheepishly, pickin’ tobacco out of the dried tomatoes. “That spotlight’s got a mind of its own.”
       “Don’t apologize,” Karlee grinned, brushin’ Mater Weed off her boots. “That was more excitement than I’ve had since I rebuilt my transmission last month.”
   Gutglor looked sadly at his scattered inventory. “There goes my revolutionary food technology.”
      “Tell you what,” Karlee said, pullin’ out her wallet. “I’ll buy whatever’s left in that jar and the Mater-weed that was spilt, to make up for the mess. Consider it payment for the entertainment.”
     “You don’t have to do that,” Gutglor protested.
      “Honey, after that light show and dance routine, I figure I owe y’all something,” Karlee laughed. “Besides, any woman who can rebuild a supercharger can probably handle whatever you’re brewin’ in those mason jars.”
   She took a sip of Gutglor’s pecan maple barrel brew and her eyes lit up. “Now that’s what I call smooth. You could run this stuff through my fuel injectors and probably get performance.”
      “That’s… not recommended,” Professor Thibodaux said quickly.
    “I’m kidding, Professor,” Karlee winked. “But seriously, Gutglor, this is good stuff. Y’all got any more stories like this, or was tonight just special?”
       “Oh honey,” Chester said, lightin’ up a fresh cigarette, “you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
   Reedus, meanwhile, was in his element, workin’ his makeshift light show like a professional DJ and throwin’ out puns faster than a machine gun.
      “Looks like everyone’s getting all shook up!” he called out over the music, adjustin’ his disco ball to highlight Stephanie’s dancing. “This party’s really poppin’!”
   Stephanie spun around and caught sight of Reedus’s makeshift light show, her eyes lightin’ up with amusement. “That’s quite a setup you got there, Reedus!” she called out. “Is that disco ball street legal, or am I gonna have to call the fashion police?”
       “Ma’am, this here’s a fully licensed entertainment device!” Reedus shot back with a grin. “All lights are regulation-approved for maximum dance floor illumination!”
    “Well then,” Stephanie said with a wink, “you better crank it up! This party needs more sparkle!”
      “Yes ma’am!” Reedus replied, adjustin’ his spotlights with theatrical flair.
     “Reedus,” Gary managed to say, still starin’ at the dance floor, “now ain’t the time for puns.”
    “Au contraire, my friend!” Reedus replied, crankin’ up his spotlights. “This is exactly the time for puns! Look at all these folks gettin’ their groove on! They’re having a ball!”
   Stephanie kept right on dancin’ as the band moved into “Cotton-Eyed Joe.” Her moves were hypnotic, and the entire VFW Hall had basically turned into an audience for a one-woman show.
   Gutglor, bless his heart, was tryin’ to conduct business despite the distraction. “Mater Weed!” he called out, holdin’ up his bags of dried soup maters. “Get your revolutionary Mater Weed here! Perfect for campin’, huntin’, or just general soup emergencies!”
   A few folks managed to tear their attention away from Stephanie long enough to sample Gutglor’s pecan oak barrel brew, which was smoother than silk pajamas and had just enough kick to make everyone feel like expert dancers.
      “This is some fine ‘shine,” Old Pete declared, havin’ abandoned his usual bench for the evening’s festivities. “What’s your secret, Gutglor?”
     “Pecan wood gives it character,” Gutglor explained proudly. “Plus, I talk to it while it’s agin’. Encouragement helps the fermentation process.”
   Karlee and Bob were two-steppin’ around the edge of the dance floor, her red shirt catchin’ the light under Reedus’s disco ball while his flannel moved with practiced ease. They moved together like they’d been dancin’ since birth, completely in sync despite the chaos around them.
      “Y’all look good out there!” Jennifer called out, clappin’ along to the music while Tommy tried to fix someone’s belt buckle with soda machine tools.
   The evening continued with more dancing, more moonshine, and more of Reedus’s relentless puns. Every time someone got distracted by Stephanie’s dancing – which was approximately every thirty seconds – Reedus was right there with a comment.
      “Don’t get too twisted up!” he called out when Chester tried to follow Stephanie’s moves and nearly fell over. “You’re gonna need a chiropractor after this!”
    “Reedus,” Professor Thibodaux said, “perhaps you could dial back the commentary?”
      “Can’t help it, Professor!” Reedus replied, adjustin’ his lights to create a romantic glow around the dance floor. “This party’s got me all fired up! Everyone’s lookin’ so sharp tonight!”
   As the night wore on, the combination of good music, better moonshine, and the best company in three counties had everyone feelin’ like they were part of somethin’ special. Even the most confirmed wallflowers were out on the dance floor, and the VFW Hall was rockin’ like Alabama winning a championship football game.
   Stephanie had become the unofficial dance instructor, teachin’ everyone from line dances to the Electric Slide, and somehow managin’ to make even the most awkward dancers look graceful. Chester had finally worked up the courage to ask her to dance, though he spent most of the time steppin’ on his own feet and chewin’ through his unfiltered cigarette with nervous energy.
      “You’re doin’ great, Chester!” Stephanie encouraged, spinnin’ around like a tornado made of sunshine and good intentions.
     “I feel like a bull in a china shop,” Chester replied, narrowly avoidin’ a collision with another couple while flickin’ ash toward an ashtray.
    “Just follow the music,” Stephanie advised. “Let it move you!”
   Over at the snack table, Gutglor’s culinary empire was generating its own entertainment. Bobby Joe Watkins, who’d clearly had a few too many sips of the pecan brew, picked up a bag of Mater Weed and started actin’ like he’d discovered something illegal.
      “Man, this stuff’s got me seein’ colors,” he announced loudly, wavin’ the bag around and staggerin’ dramatically. “I think I can hear the tomatoes singin’!”
    “It’s dried vegetables, you fool,” laughed Martha Sue, but Bobby Joe was committed to his performance.
   Meanwhile, Cletus Morrison decided to use the Mater Weed as a dip for his crackers, dunkin’ them straight into the dry leaves. After chewin’ thoughtfully for a moment, his eyes went wide. “I swear I just saw the Virgin Mary in my soup bowl,” he declared solemnly, “and she was smilin’!”
   Professor Thibodaux and Tommy the fountain drink technician got into a heated debate about the scientific differences between “dehydrated” and “freeze-dried” preservation methods, gesticulating wildly with their drinks until Tommy accidentally spilled gravy down the front of his coveralls.
      “That’s what you get for arguin’ with a professor,” Jennifer teased, handin’ him a napkin.
    “It’s like instant soup, but fancier,” one customer declared, examinin’ a bag of the dried mater leaves. “My wife’s gonna love this for campin’ trips.”
      “Revolutionary food technology,” Gutglor agreed, countin’ his profits with satisfaction.
   Just then, the VFW Hall doors opened and in walked Sheriff Billy Thompson, lookin’ around the room with the measured gaze of a lawman. A hush fell over part of the crowd.
      “Evenin’, Sheriff!” Gutglor called out cheerfully. “Come for some chicken?”
   Sheriff Thompson walked over, examinin’ the bags of dried leaves. He picked up a bag, sniffed it, and chuckled.
    “Gutglor, somebody called about suspicious plants at the dance,” the sheriff said with a grin. “Figured it was just your latest creation.”
      “Just dried tomatoes, Sheriff,” Gutglor explained. “Mater Weed – for instant soup. Completely legal.”
    “Well, I’ll be. This is that soup mix you mentioned when I bought your corn liquor last month,” the sheriff said, pullin’ out his wallet. “The missus wants camping food. Give me three bags and some of that chicken.”
   The crowd relaxed as Sheriff Thompson made his purchase, clearly a regular customer of Gutglor’s diverse enterprises.
      “Sheriff!” Reedus called out. “Stick around for a dance!”
    “Don’t mind if I do,” the sheriff replied. “Haven’t had a good two-step in a few months.”
   The fountain drink technician, Tommy, had recovered from his wall collision and was now demonstrating his dance moves, which looked suspiciously like the motions used to repair a Coca-Cola dispenser. Jennifer was encouragin’ him with the enthusiasm of someone who appreciated skilled craftsmanship in any form.
      “You got rhythm like a well-tuned soda machine!” Jennifer declared, which was apparently the highest compliment she could think of.

Intermission: “Well now, folks, as the night wore on and the mason jars got lighter, it was clear this wasn’t gonna be just another ordinary Friday at the VFW Hall. Between Reedus’s light show, Gutglor’s entrepreneurial spirit, and enough dancing to wear out a linoleum floor, Buzzard Roost was witnessing something special. But as they say, all good things must come to an end, even if that end comes with a Garth Brooks song and one last chance to hold someone close.”
    
   As the final notes of “Cotton-Eyed Joe” faded away, the core group of boys found themselves sprawled on the VFW’s front steps, sweaty, satisfied, and slightly overwhelmed by the evening’s events. The Alabama night was warm and welcoming, with crickets providin’ a gentle soundtrack to their post-party reflection.
   Chester sat rubbin’ his feet, grinnin’ despite himself while lightin’ up another cigarette. “My toes feel like they went through a blender, but my heart’s fuller than Gutglor’s truck bed,” he declared, blowin’ smoke into the Alabama night.
   Gutglor produced a special mason jar from his jacket pocket. “Morning shine,” he announced, passin’ it around. “Aged twelve whole hours – perfect for contemplatin’ life’s mysteries.”
   Reedus, his chrome boot decals still catchin’ the porch light, gazed up at the stars with philosophical wonder. “You know, boys, electricity and romance ain’t so different. Both can light up a room, both can give you a shock, and both work better when you know how to handle the wiring.”
   Professor Thibodaux nodded sagely. “A most astute observation, Reedus. Tonight has been quite… illuminating.”
   As the evening wound down and the Grease Monkeys played their final song – Garth Brooks’ “The Dance” – that had couples swaying like wheat in a gentle breeze, everyone in the VFW Hall felt like they’d been part of somethin’ magical.
   Reedus had dialed down his light show to create a romantic atmosphere, though he couldn’t resist one final pun. “Guess it’s time to cut the ignition and coast on home!” he called out. “Hope everyone had a ball!”
      “We did, Reedus,” Stephanie said, givin’ him a hug that made his wild hair stand up even more. “Your light show made everything perfect.”
   Chester, Gary, and the Professor were all grinnin’ like kids who’d gotten away with somethin’, while Gutglor was packin’ up his remaining inventory with the satisfaction of a successful entrepreneur.
      “Boys,” Chester announced, loosenin’ his collar, “we need to do this more often.”
    “Agreed,” the Professor said, carefully foldin’ his bow tie. “This was a most educational evening in terms of community social dynamics.”
      “In English, Professor,” Gary requested.
    “We had a damn good time,” the Professor translated.
   As folks started headin’ home, Karlee and Bob climbed into their respective vehicles – her into the Avalanche, him into his classic ’67 Chevy – both trucks catchin’ the light from the VFW’s neon sign. Tommy the fountain drink technician was carefully loadin’ his tools while Jennifer chatted about the evening’s highlights.
      “Same time next month?” Old Pete asked, settlin’ into someone’s pickup truck for a ride back to his usual bench.
    “Wouldn’t miss it,” Chester replied, takin’ a long drag and watchin’ Stephanie climb into her car with a wave that would fuel his dreams for weeks.
   And so another legendary evening at the Buzzard Roost VFW Hall came to an end, leavin’ behind nothing but good memories, empty mason jars, and the lingering aroma of fried chicken and innovation. Reedus’s makeshift disco ball continued spinnin’ long after everyone had gone home, throwin’ sparkles of light into the Alabama night like mechanical stars.

Outro: “Now that there, folks, is what I call a proper shindig. Sometimes the best parties aren’t about fancy venues or expensive entertainment – they’re about good people, good music, and the kind of creativity that turns a chrome air cleaner into a disco ball. And if you ever find yourself in need of some Friday night entertainment, well, there’s always the VFW Hall and the promise of Mater Weed, moonshine, and maybe a dance with destiny.”