Bob and Shopping for a suite

My summer work had yielded the $120.00 it had promised and my biceps had grown at least an inch. The view in the mirror was tanned and taunt and getting handsomer and handsomer...plus my mind had been occupied every minute of every day. It had, over all, been a great summer.

The $120 was more money than I had ever earned. It should be enough for a suit. Yes, that’s what I really wanted, a suit. Bob offered to take me to London, the closest big city, to go suit shopping. Bobs car was a 1955 Ford and Bob thought it made for a good street racer. As a result, Bob’s car burned as much oil as it did gas. Black smoke would billow so thick out of the tailpipe, the kind that’s responsible for the Global warming we’ve been hearing about. It got so bad that he would ask for the used oil at the gas station. It was a lot easier on his wallet.

On our way to London, we got to pretending that our car was a get away car with a smoke screen hiding any would be trackers. There was certainly plenty of smoke. . Bob wasn’t speeding as usual. He had said he wanted to take it easy for a change and we were Sunday driving like as if we going to church . As we were driving through Brights Grove, I noticed a guy walking along the side of the road who seemed to find us quite amusing. As we passed by I pointed him out to Bob. “He thinks we have a get away car Bob”. Bob turned in his seat to get a good look just as we were rounding the curve. All I remember was seeing a shiny new 1965 Buick chrome grill and then darkness, complete darkness. Apparently I wandered around outside of the car but I couldn’t see - at the time I vaguely remember thinking some one had pulled the plug on the lights. Somebody laid me down on a blanket and I lay there wondered what was taking the ambulance so long.

The next day in the hospital Bob came by with a big grin and his front tooth missing and passed me a mirror so I could see my damages. This was better than Halloween. My forehead had been completely torn off and sewn hurriedly back together. My handsome face was bruised beyond recognition. It was covered with the longest criss-cross of stitches I had ever seen, The doctor had tried to pull the gaping cuts back together. No wonder it had gotten so dark. The skin from my forehead had fallen over my eyes after going through the windshield.

I found out later that my doctor had died after sewing me up. The new Doctor came by in the morning and when he first saw me he had such a look of astonishment on his face. He had never seen such a poor patch job. Bob had a great sense of humor and from then on nicknamed me scarface.