Michael Byers

The Demolition Derby Team of the First Church of the Word of Elvis Iceboat

Copperhead

Picchvai

These days, when Bob was not rebuilding his motorcycle, he was participating in any number of oddball activities, for example becoming official clergy in the eyes of the State of Michigan, at first just for the parking placard, but then the occasion arose to officiate Martin and Mary’s recommitment ceremony, which was of course not a legally binding affair, but they needed a person of at least marginal substance who had known them forever, and that was Bob. Some years ago Bob had helped Martin build the gazebo beneath which they all now took shelter as the skies opened with karmic timing the moment Bob began his script, quickly abandoned, and it was in the intimate and jolly environment beneath that beadboarded ceiling, everyone with a beer in hand, that Martin mentioned his cousin’s Cadillac, which was looking for a dignified end, a topic that was arising more and more lately about any number of matters. So a plan was conceived, and they drew straws to see who would drive, and fate declared Bob the lucky man. You were supposed to remove most of the interior for safety, but this struck both Bob and Martin, as well as Newell, the third member of their congregation, as an unnecessary precaution, so instead, duct tape was used to position old sofa cushions from the PTO Thrift Store, and to assure blessedness, Newell burned sage over the split vinyl of the rear seats, and Martin painted the hood with the Eye of the Illuminati to mystify, as he said. Bob brought his helmet. It was a mud track in Chelsea where the object was to be the last vehicle operational. You could not hit another driver’s door, but other than that it was just a free-for-all, and after the initial shock of being konked much harder than expected in the right rear panel, Bob began to appreciate the old Cadillac’s width and wallowing power and invincible steel frame. He eliminated a Taurus in one swift crumpling blow to the back half and used the momentum gained by the push of a Saturn to nudge a sad minivan up on two wheels and then over on its top like a beetle, and by the time he rotated himself to measure the field, he was one of only four vehicles remaining. To discover he was a genius at the sport of demolition derby at the age of sixty-six was a bit of a melancholy recognition, one quickly overwhelmed by the pure giddy joy of the moment, and so it was that Bob Mcdonald was reborn, none too soon. You could never say what was to be

holy in this world, where its finest parts hid themselves away, but he had been patient, he had been good, most important of all, he had remained ridiculous. The Elvis thing was ironical but hadn’t Elvis been born again, or was he confusing that with Johnny Cash?