The Big Cat Nap

crash standards for the original manufacturers’ parts. I’m not one for regulation—I think we’re overregulated—but here’s a case where there’s nothing. I can fix your car with a plastic part made to look like metal. Will it hold up in a crash? No.”
    “I had no idea, and I love cars. Until you handed me those wheels, I couldn’t have known what you were talking about.”
    Mildred grimaced. “It’s like the mortuary industry. People don’t want to think about dying, and they don’t want to think about car wrecks, either. It’s not a part of their daily life until it happens to them.”
    Harry nodded.
    Mildred scrutinized Harry, then continued, “Here’s the thing, and I go ’round about this. All carmakers want you and me to replace damaged engine parts with their parts, electrical stuff, and so on. They guarantee those parts. Aftermarket parts are a lot cheaper, so people can get their cars repaired cheaper. Some folks would say that’s good because if you use only, say, GM parts, then GM has squeezed out the copycat, so that’s no competition. The consumer loses. I understand that.” Mildred paused for full effect. “But what’s more important: anti-monopoly or your safety? ’Cause I sure can tellyou, the Chinese don’t give a fig about your safety, and I’m thinking the insurance companies don’t, either.”
    “Why?”
    She exploded, “They don’t care about safety and they don’t want to cover big repair bills.”
    “Yes,” Harry agreed. “Wow, what a mess.”
    “The insurance companies are bleating about consumer choice, the carmakers want to protect their reputations, and maybe they do want to shove out the copycats, but I tell you what, I see poorly made cars; trucks come in here even after stripped and still have blood on them. Gets to me every time.”
    “It would me.” Harry changed the subject. “Are you the only person working here? This is a big place.”
    Mildred leaned against the counter. “No. Have two fellows working here; sent them off to bring me a late lunch and get some for themselves. I have two kids; ’course, they’re in their forties now. Drew and I sent them both to college. They don’t want no part of this business. Don’t want to get their hands dirty.”
    “This is a good business.” Harry emphasized “good.”
    “Young people are different now. Forty is young to me. No one wants to work with their hands.” She peered at Harry again, noting the dust on her jeans, a few pieces of hay in her hair. “Not many want to farm, either.”
    “Millie, I wouldn’t be farming if I hadn’t inherited it. No way could I afford land, the equipment, seeds, and fertilizer and make a go of it.”
    “Sucks,” Millie succinctly responded. “Tell you what, though, your mama and papa sure were lucky to have a girl who wanted to keep the family business going. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I know I should retire, but this is my life. What would I do? Watch
I Love Lucy
reruns?”
    “She was the best.” Harry grinned.
    “That she was.” Mildred shifted her weight. “When the economy comes back up, I reckon I will sell the business. Don’t rightly know.”
    They chatted a bit more, then Harry thanked her profusely, makinga mental note to send over some special canned foods she’d put up last year. Harry knew she’d be back. Something about Mildred touched her. She didn’t dwell on it, she just knew she’d be back.
    Mildred gave her a big hug as Harry put her hand on the doorknob, the three furry friends at her feet.
    “Millie, what do you drive?”
    “Ha.” Mildred clapped her hands. “A big-ass 1962 Impala convertible. They can all get out of my way.”
    Driving out of the salvage yard, Harry pictured the round little lady in the big Chevy.
    Bored with I-64, she drove to Waynesboro the back way.
    “Hey, let’s go to the drag strip. No one’s there.”
    Tucker’s brown eyes registered worry.
“You’d better not do anything with this car.”
    Fifteen minutes later, the black WRX STI glided onto the grounds of Central Virginia Hot Rod Track. Harry drove right up to the Christmas tree.
    “That’s a lot of lights,”
Mrs. Murphy remarked.
    “I so want to do the quarter mile.” Harry’s hands gripped the steering wheel. “Well, I can’t. It’s not right to do that in a car I haven’t paid for, but how can I do it otherwise? I mean, they’ll never let me race here, and I shouldn’t. I really