Nor will you hurry this...
Ray looks up from under the Chevy’s hood wearing a streak of black grease on his cheek and a knowing smile. “Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch. The Four Tops.” He points a finger at Mac, who’s sitting at the workbench holding a beer in one hand and his iPhone in the other.
“Okay, Smarty, see if you get this one.” Mac again thumbs through the phone’s playlist, finally picking a song with a self-satisfying, “Ooooh, yeaaaah.” He juts his chin at Ray as he hits play, the shake of a tambourine and the deep call of a piano filling the garage
“Too easy. Build Me Up Buttercup. The Foundations.”
Mac shakes his head. “You know old music almost as well as you know old cars. Figure out what’s up with that carb?”
“Music fills the heart and soul. ’57 Chevys empty the wallet,” Ray says with a wink. “Damn choke is sticking. I think I got it.”
Mac nods and then pokes at the phone, bringing another song to life for a few short beats.
Mac shakes his head. “You know old music almost as well as you know old cars. Figure out what’s up with that carb?”
“Music fills the heart and soul. ’57 Chevys empty the wallet,” Ray says with a wink. “Damn choke is sticking. I think I got it.”
Mac nods and then pokes at the phone, bringing another song to life for a few short beats.
“Get Ready. Rare Earth,” says Mac’s son, Thomas, stepping through the side door.
“Close, but no cigar. Though they did it some real justice, I must say.” Ray closes the hood and looks across at Thomas. “The Temptations. I wanna say 1965.”
But as Ray slips around the Chevy, Mac’s granddaughter, Kat, stands in his way, shaking her head. “1966, actually. Smokey Robinson wrote it. It only made it to 29 on Billboard’s charts, while Rare Earth’s shot up to number 4.”
“Ain’t you a walking, talking Wikipedia,” Ray says, chuckling.
“Actually, I came by for something else.”
“What is it Kit-Kat?” Mac waves her over and her father, Thomas, follows.
“Now that I’m eighteen, I can vote for the first time, but I’m not even sure it’s worth it. I mean, it’s like, INSANE, right? We’re soooo divided, Grandpa. I think we’ve lost our compassion. Our humanity. Maybe mostly our minds. Just look at social media...everyone’s at each other’s throat, there’s no middle ground. Was it like that when you were my age?”
“Ooooh, boy. When Ray and I turned eighteen, we were drafted and sent to ‘Nam. That was ’68, and, yeah, this country was a mess. The protests were everywhere. We couldn’t agree on the war. Civil rights. Or even women’s rights. Then, making matters worse, Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King were assassinated...” Mac pauses, turning his head to clear his throat and rub moist eyes. “I guess this is probably the most divided I’ve seen us since.”
Kat shakes her head. “So we’re back to where we started? Why should I even bother to vote?”
“It’s going to be your world soon, Kat,” replies Ray. “Your voice does count. And remember, hate is insidious, it spreads like a virus. Love takes time.”
Mac nods. “That’s for sure. Take it from someone who knows...” He taps the phone again, letting Diana Ross and the Supremes sing their lesson, You Can’t Hurry Love.”
“Close, but no cigar. Though they did it some real justice, I must say.” Ray closes the hood and looks across at Thomas. “The Temptations. I wanna say 1965.”
But as Ray slips around the Chevy, Mac’s granddaughter, Kat, stands in his way, shaking her head. “1966, actually. Smokey Robinson wrote it. It only made it to 29 on Billboard’s charts, while Rare Earth’s shot up to number 4.”
“Ain’t you a walking, talking Wikipedia,” Ray says, chuckling.
“Actually, I came by for something else.”
“What is it Kit-Kat?” Mac waves her over and her father, Thomas, follows.
“Now that I’m eighteen, I can vote for the first time, but I’m not even sure it’s worth it. I mean, it’s like, INSANE, right? We’re soooo divided, Grandpa. I think we’ve lost our compassion. Our humanity. Maybe mostly our minds. Just look at social media...everyone’s at each other’s throat, there’s no middle ground. Was it like that when you were my age?”
“Ooooh, boy. When Ray and I turned eighteen, we were drafted and sent to ‘Nam. That was ’68, and, yeah, this country was a mess. The protests were everywhere. We couldn’t agree on the war. Civil rights. Or even women’s rights. Then, making matters worse, Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King were assassinated...” Mac pauses, turning his head to clear his throat and rub moist eyes. “I guess this is probably the most divided I’ve seen us since.”
Kat shakes her head. “So we’re back to where we started? Why should I even bother to vote?”
“It’s going to be your world soon, Kat,” replies Ray. “Your voice does count. And remember, hate is insidious, it spreads like a virus. Love takes time.”
Mac nods. “That’s for sure. Take it from someone who knows...” He taps the phone again, letting Diana Ross and the Supremes sing their lesson, You Can’t Hurry Love.”
