The Grouch

“The Grouch”

Chuck Martin

At times Uncle Buss was a grouch. He had ulcers. When they were hurting he swallowed white chalky stuff and took long walks. When he was having one of these spells I tried to avoid upsetting him. My summers were spent on his ranch in Tucson and he would fetch me at my home in Pueblo, Colorado. Once, when I was eleven, we were to leave the next morning and Buss, decided to tune up his old 49’ Plymouth.
I was standing in the yard as he came out the back door. “Come on,” he ordered, motioning me to follow. I was careful, as the night before Buss took a long walk after supper, and that morning he had chug-a-lugged some of that chalky, white medicine. So with nervous uncertainty I followed him to the back shed where the Plymouth was parked.

Uncle Buss popped the hood, took his cowboy hat off, placed it on a fence post, and stuck his bald head underneath. He started messing with some wires. “Gemmie the kray-sant wrench,” he stated, from under the hood, arm straight out, hand open waiting for the tool. I had no idea what he was talking about. Rushing into the shed I grabbed the first wrench I saw. Nervously I placed it in Buss’s hand. He yelled, “Dad blast it!” and swiftly came up hitting his head on the edge of the hood. He stood there with a painful, disgusted look on his face, rubbing his head where a small cut, and a knot, had appeared. “I didn’t ask for a box end. I need a crescent.” He walked into the shed, came out with the right tool, and ducked back under the hood.

I stood there dreading his next request. Uncle Buss stuck his head out, “Get in the car. When I tell you, turn the ignition over a few times, Jus’ barely hit it. Can you do that?”

“Y-Yes, sir,” I said climbing in behind the wheel. The keys were in the ignition. The silver starter button on the dash. I put my thumb on the button waiting for his command. He yelled something. Thinking it was the order to turn the engine over I pushed in the clutch, turned the key, and pushed the button. The Plymouth back fired, coughed, and came to life. Buss flew out from under the hood, rushed over, and violently flew open the door. The veins in his neck stuck out, his face was crimson red, “Gosh dang,” he yelled, “Ya lil’ idjit! Ya tryin’ to kill me? My head was right by the fan blade. I told ya to hold on a minute, not start the dang thing. Get the dickens outta’ there. Just stand here and don’t do nothin‘.”

Buss turned the motor off, got his head back under the hood, came out, and hit the starter a couple of times. He repeated this. I stood happily doing nothing. He came up out of the engine signaling me to come over. “My glasses are in the shed,” he said in a low firm voice. “Do you think you could find them?”

I looked high and low and had almost given up when I spied a pair on the shelf. I wondered why he would want that kind, but they were the only ones in there. I handed them to him. He stared at the glasses in a strange way. Shaking his head he looked down at me. Buss spoke calmly, and very slowly. “Why… in… the… world… would you… think… I wanted sun-glasses to work under the hood of a car?” “It was the only glasses there,” I exclaimed. Buss looked up at the sky and back at me. “Here’s two dimes, get outta’ here. Go get an ice cream.”

Sitting on the curb by the store eating ice cream I thought, Uncle Buss sure gets grouchy when his ulcers are acting up.