“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I really appreciate it.”
Silas grins at me. He clearly has my number. “Poo!” He states in a perfect, adorable, elderly old man style. “You just want my car.”
“I—I would obviously like to buy it from you. That is why I’m here. But I do appreciate you taking the time to answer my letter and invite me here. Also, for considering me as the next potential owner of your very rare treasure.”
“I got that car when I was a kid. Can you imagine? I put it on a shelf, kept it safe, and stored it away in a trunk when I went to college. I always had it with me, always safe, all throughout the years, which is ninety-two of them now. Ninety-two.” He chuckles like it’s hard for him to believe the number, even now, after having practiced saying it, thinking it, and getting used to it. “Well, you had better come into the house as I don’t want to hash it out on the front porch. I made tea. Do you drink tea?”
“Tea? Oh. Yes. Cold or hot. Whatever you have.”
Silas scrunches his brow down in amusement. His face is so wrinkled that it’s almost like he has no wrinkles if that makes sense. The skin is stretched smooth when his face is at rest, but when he frowns or smiles or talks, the wrinkles bunch up on top of each other.
“If I asked you if you drank warm piss, would you say yes just to get the car?”
I let out a rather undignified and surprised snort. “I suppose it would depend on whose piss we’re talking about here. Yours? Mine? Someone else’s? Also, what kind of diet have they been on lately? Human? Animal? Or are we just talking hot piss as opposed to cold piss and not really getting into the details beyond that?”
Now Silas snorts and guffaws as he slaps his hand with the lumpy, twisted knuckles against his upper thigh. “I don’t like many people nowadays. I’m rather crotchety in my old age, or so they tell me, but I think I’m going to like you, son. It’s your lucky day. Come in, and we can talk about the car, but you don’t have to drink any piss. Warm or cold.”
CHAPTER 2
Wilder
“So, tell me now, what kind of a name is Wilder? Wilder than what?”
That’s the first question Silas asks me after he seats me down at his retro kitchen table—a gem with red vinyl, chrome edges, and a glistening top. He made tea like he said he would, and there are two mugs with tan, creamy-looking tea steaming in front of us. Silas is sitting at the head of the table while I’m sitting in a seat closest to him since I didn’t want to talk to him across the table like we’re conducting business. I’d like to be friendlier than that. In the interest of getting off on the right foot here, I also don’t mention it’s definitely not the first time I’ve heard that one about my name. Not even close to the first time.
“I guess just the one my parents gave me.”
“Don’t suppose that having a strange name makes you entitled to things. Like being a badass or anything.”
“No, sir. Of course not. I could change it.”
“Change what?”
“My name?”
“Eh?”
“I could change my name. They have forms for that. It would be a pain, though, to go through all that paperwork to change my IDs, and not to mention, my mom would be heartbroken, so strange or not, I’ve stuck with it over the years.” As we talk, the tea continues stewing. The cream has curdled at the top, and white bits are now forming around the edges.
“And how many years would those be?”
“Thirty-five now.”
“Thirty-five!” Silas hoots. “Good gravy and soft, fluffy biscuits, what I wouldn’t give to be thirty-five again.”
“If I could engineer it, I’d give it to you in exchange for the car,” I say in the most non-threatening, unrepulsive tone because I’m not trying to be a weasel here. I’m actually serious. I really would. I’d like to go back in time and see what Silas was like when he was young. That would be a good time, I’m sure of it.
“You really want the car, don’t you?”
“Well, yes, I do. I’m a collector, and there are only two in existence that people know of, and you have one. I don’t feel like my collection would be complete without it.”
“And what are you going to do with this collection when you kick it? Those things you never play with and just look at. What good are they when you’re gone?”
“I guess they’ll be some good to my kids or whoever inherits it. I suppose I could also leave it to a museum and let everyone enjoy it. I’ve been thinking about loaning it when it’s further along toward completion.”