Superfluous to the plan

The plan was to take the Biscayne apart, drop it a few inches, put bench seats in like it used to have, and paint the thing a black cherry color with a perle luster to it.  Some how, three mechanics stuck their noses into the plans and created a Frankenbeater out of my car.  There it sat, in no fewer than thirty-five pieces, with my husband, my uncle, my brother-in-law, and a very frightened young mechanic standing around it.  My husband, Butch, looked up at his brother, LeRoy.  LeRoy looked up at Butch, then to my Uncle Jack.  All three had their hands set squarely on their hips.  The young kid mechanic just stood there with a wrench in his hand, waiting for Uncle Jack to look up at him.

But, Uncle Jack wouldn't look up.  He was staring at the front axle set upon jacks, brakes removed.  I could see from my point, about twenty feet away, that he was gritting his teeth.  Now, Uncle Jack is a soft hearted man most times, and I've only ever seen him angry maybe two or three times in my thirty-odd years on earth.  This was one of those times, and I didn't care to be in the kid mechanic's boots.

"What... did you... do?" he asked.  His voice was deep and raspy, something like John Wayne with a Texas drawl.  The kid, whose name I did not know, pulled the rag from his back pocket and wiped away beads of sweat.  I think he turned a few shades whiter.

"Well, I... you know... 'cause Jimmy..."

"Jimmy?  What about Jimmy?" asked Uncle Jack.  My arms were folded at this point.  The car was intended to be a birthday gift from Jack, Butch and LeRoy.  It would now be a belated gift, since apparently, the kid mechanic and his pals decided to make it a project car.

"Jimmy said the color was all wrong for the car, and that it should be..."

"Whose shop is this?"

"Well, yours of course, Mr. Dean," the mechanic responded to my uncle.  "Jimmy said it was some old beater you picked up..."

"Jimmy doesn't work here now.  Don't speak his name again.  This was all superfluous to the plan."

I looked at Uncle Jack as if the slick swash of reddish hair plastered back on his head was on fire.  He may have been a grease monkey and honky tonker, but he was incredibly intelligent.  The only problem was, if he was using words like superfluous, heads were about to roll.  Butch and LeRoy looked at each other, eyebrows raised, and then at Jack.  They were smart enough to eke a step back, but the kid mechanic didn't know where to go.  There stood Uncle Jack, arms folded, staring at the axle.

"Sue...?" the mechanic squeaked.

"Superfluous.  This car was intended for my niece, Delilah, here.  Lilah's birthday is coming up, and her husband, his brother, and I were going to make a nice little daily driver out of it, since the engine blew in her other car.  The plan was not for a bunch of punk kids to make a practice car out of it.  Y'all made a mess of it.  Now, I know Jimmy is an idiot, and as I said, he's no longer employed here.  That being said, you will put this car back the way you found it with help from any other stooge that decided to follow Jimmy's direction..."

"Ned helped!"

Jack glared at the kid.  Butch, LeRoy and I backed up again.  Uncle Jack looked something like an Ed Roth hot rod monster with his pale eyes bugged out.  We were afraid that glare would spontaneously ignite anything in its path.

"Then you and Ned can put back what you helped Jimmy to destroy," Uncle Jack growled.  The mechanic cowered and dropped his wrench, startling himself.  He slowly bent down to pick it up, not taking his eyes off of Uncle Jack, as if he may be mauled at any moment, then quietly responded with a "yes, sir".

"If you do a good job of it, I may decide to pay you for the work.  If I find so much as a nut put on wrong, you won't get pay from me ever again.  Are we clear?"

The kid didn't speak, but nodded instead.  Uncle Jack unfolded his arms, turned and stormed up the stairs to his office.  I turned my eyes to the kid.

"Sorry, Miss Delilah," he told me.  I nodded and slowly followed Uncle Jack upstairs, letting the brothers have a moment with the kid.  I think the poor boy may have quit after that, because I never saw him at the shop again, though I did get my Biscayne a month later.  One thing was for sure, everyone in town knew better than to touch one of Uncle Jack's cars without permission again.