Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes
“The plans” Casey’s father had spoken of became apparent on Casey’s fifteenth birthday, for a ragged Mustang—pastel yellow—sat parked over the dandelions peeking up through the cracks in the driveway when Brendon stopped by.
“Not quite running,” was how Casey described it when Brendon asked, “but Dad’s got a new engine block to go in it and we’re going to piece that bitch back together…together.”
A light sparkled in Casey’s eyes. And he leaned forward, his breath smelling of barbeque sauce from the chicken they munched on, leftovers from the weekend with all the crunch gone to mush around the grilled edges.
“Sounds like a lot of work.”
“Less than one of your paintings, I assure you, but art, Bren, in its own way.”
“When do you think you’ll get it running?”
“Sixteenth or bust, baby. Going to have my own wheels sophmore year.” A wolfish grin flashed across Casey’s face, like all the trouble they could get into churned the wheels already.
“Your dad just bailed you out of jail because of you being at a drag race and now he’s given you a car…”
Casey laughed out loud. “Irony! All my English teachers would be proud.” Then he sobered. “But it’s not running. It’s dead in the drive right now. Needs a lot of TLC, which means I’m to be hanging around here most of the year as we get it ready. More time I spend with Dad, sooner the car’s ready.”
“Ah. That’s manipulative.” Continue reading