Born to Drive

Born to Drive Grayson Jaymes As some men are born to soar into the skies, others to dive to treasures of forgotten ships, Clark Gable Biggs was born to drive. A fact, among the kudzucovered hills of Town Creek, Alabama, that required no explanation. Just as there was no need to see Clark Gable outfitted in his aviator's cap, rayon scarf, and goggles to know when the turquoise steering wheel of the '55 Thunderbird rested in his able hands. In this red clay corner of north Alabama , it was enough to hear "boooddddiiinnn , bood, boooodddiinnn" rise above the soybeans to know Clark Gable was off. And when they heard it—"vaarrroodddinnn, vvaarrooommmmm "—settle on the cotton, the sound creased their sun-etched faces into smiles. For to these warriors battling erosion with not much more than a hoe, the Thunderbird's unmistakable purr was such a pleasant diversion, neither man, woman, nor child concerned themselves. Clark Gable would never possess other than the steering wheel of the car. Neither did it matter that the Thunderbird 's trail of dust could extend no farther than the corrugated tin building known as Mr. Son Norman's Cotton Gin and Garage. Especially not to Linda Sue Norma, a petite, red-haired woman charged with overseeing the ginning. She was content to watch the yard grow white from a blizzard of handpicked cotton, while beside her a jar of red licorice candy waited patiently for the Thunderbird's "vvrrooommmm." With equal patience, Mr. Son kept his black eyes fixed upon his bailing. Or he reached for a socket wrench to occasionally tune Starlin Patterson's Lincoln Continental, or restore to running order the badly used mail truck entrusted to Herman Odell Grimmer, or perform some other miracle on Town Creek's ancient trucks, tractors, and cars. But if Herman Odell Grimmer, a greasy stump of a man with beady, darting eyes, had once again stripped his mail truck of its second gear, and was therefore present when the Thunderbird careened into the yard, Clark Gable's visit began badly. For when Clark Gable detected an empty gas gauge, a low front tire, or saw a blot of mud clinging to a turquoise fender skirt, then flicked his rayon to send the offending clay hurling into space, Herman Odell Grimmer grimly muttered, "God Almighty Jesus Christ." Exactly why Herman Odell despised Clark Gable no one ever knew for certain , but that he did detest the Thunderbird 's expert driver was common knowledge. Almost daily he reported to Linda Sue, "Clark Gable's outside with that steering wheel around his neck, putting the nozzle of your gas pump in his back pocket and he's already throwed your tire gauge down on the ground cause he was finished with holding it to his shoes." To which Linda Sue answered, "That's quite all right, Herman Odell. I don't expect Clark Gable to drive the Thunderbird with low tires and an empty tank because, as you well know, today he's thinking he's going into New York." "Now he's got the steering wheel in his hands and he's running down the road," Herman Odell rejoined morosely. He longed to ask why no one besides himself seemed to understand that Clark Gable was crazy. Instead, everybody wondered why Herman Odell was the way he was, and while everyone in Town Creek had an opinion, Linda Sue crinkled her freckled 61 nose and voiced the logical conclusion, "I believe Herman Odefl stays in such a bad mood because his initials spell hog." After general agreement with Linda Sue's theory, and as Herman Odell's initials were the only thing of interest about him, the conversation moved on. Often to ask Mr. Son to tell again about the day Precious Patterson drove her brand new turquoise Thunderbird through the meeting hall of the United Daughters of the Confederacy. Then there followed bittersweet laughter, because on that same day Clark Gable's mother gave up her fight with cancer, and Clark Gable's daddy, until the September of 1946, remained some unnamed sire. Not that Clark Gable's mother was a particularly immoral person. It...