“Stop, Sam. Stop, stop, stop. Stop, Sam!”
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The van finally came to a halt, about three inches from the telephone
pole.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” I sighed. “When I say, ‘Stop,’
that means you come to an immediate halt. It does not mean slow
down, take evasive action, or doubt me. ‘Stop,’ means apply the
brakes and come to a standstill as soon as possible.”
“Okay. I know,” she said
“Well, then, why didn’t you stop?”
“I don’t know.”
“Honey, when I yell, ‘Stop!” that’s a signal that I’m trying to
save our lives or avoid financial ruin.”
“Okay.”
I am one of the people responsible for teaching our 15-year-old
daughter to drive. Me. The person who had four accidents within
two years of getting his license and at least four other “incidents”
with the family car.
I do not know why my dad didn’t hurt me, have a nervous breakdown,
or get a court order to prevent me from coming within 100 feet
of his car.
I do not know if I have inherited that kind of forbearance. I
mean, so far, my daughter hasn’t done anything wrong, in terms
of costing us money. But I get nervous just watching her operate
the van’s radio, despite her being a radio maestro. She can “Name
that Tune” in one note and, if she doesn’t like it, she pushes
buttons faster than a CPA punches in a column of numbers.
What, then, will I do when Sam has her first accident? How will
I respond if she repeats one of my incidents?
Mary and I had just finished high school. I was a cash cow, thanks
to generous graduation gifts of money. When the state fair began,
my dad let me use his car for the 300-mile round trip.
Mary and I decided to be grown up. We bought some cigarettes and
smoked them one after another during the drive. It was a beautiful,
hot, summer day, and we rolled the car windows down to be cool
and feel the rush of the wind and our speed.
Thinking it a bad idea to fill my dad’s ashtray with my brand
of smokes, I flicked butts out the window as I finished them.
Suddenly, we came upon some road work. Men were filling cracks
in the road with tar. There was one-lane traffic, and our line
was creeping behind a foul smelling tar truck. Mary asked if I
smelled something funny. Of course, I did. That raunchy tar truck.
Can you imagine the cancer those poor guys are going to develop
working in those fumes all day?
Finally, our line of cars was directed to pass around the road
crew. We sped away to make up time. I checked for cops in the
rearview mirror. Smoke wafted upward.
“Mary, what’s going on in the back seat?”
She turned around. “My, God. It’s burning.”
“What?”
“The seat is burning.”
I wheeled into the driveway of the next roadside farm and drove
up to an outside water spigot. There was a bucket, which I filled
and used to douse the smoldering seat.
A preliminary damage assessment revealed an ugly, black hole in
the upholstery. About two inches in diameter. Not too bad. Could
have been worse. Nothing a pillow couldn’t hide until I came up
with an explanation.
We continued on our way. Mary was shaken. “Want to turn back?”
she asked.
“What’s the difference? I’m a dead duck if we go home or if we
go have some fun and then go home.”
So we set out to have some fun.
But a few miles down the road, there was smoke drifting up through
the rearview mirror again. The seat was still burning!
On two wheels, I screamed into another farmer’s drive. This time,
I wasn’t so careful. He had a hose attached to his spigot, and
I drenched the seat. When it stopped smoldering, I reached into
the hole and pulled out stuffing. The fire had spread underneath
the upholstery, almost the entire length of the seat and up into
the back cushion.
When I burned my fingers on some hot stuffing, I attacked with
the hose again. Into the hole, under the upholstery, into the
stuffing. Then, I pulled more of the innards out. I didn’t get
burned again, but for good measure, I applied more water on and
in.
It was a sick sight. About an inch and a half of dirty water stood
over the back floor mats of my dad’s newer Buick LeSabre. Burned,
black bits of stuffing provided bleak accents.
What could we do? We continued on to the fair, resolved to salvage
some fun.
However, each time either one of us turned to the back seat and
returned with a pained expression, our moods were dampened. For
a while, we tried to come up with a story, an explanation, for
my dad. Ultimately, we came to the conclusion that I’d just have
to own up to it.
We made a pact not to talk about it anymore. And have some fun.
When I parked in the state fair parking lot, I did not lock the
car. On the contrary, I made sure all four windows were rolled
down and left the keys in the ignition.
“What are you doing?” Mary asked.
“Maybe somebody will steal it.”
It was the first good idea she gave me credit for all day.
We tried our damnedest. But we did not have a good time at the
fair. It’s hard to have fun when somebody breaks a pact each time
you take a break for lemonade or a corn dog. The comedian isn’t
funny and bands don’t sound good when you’re trying to get a glimpse
of a car in the parking lot from the grandstand.
Actually, we did spot the car from the triple ferris wheel. After
about three passes through the pinnacle, I located it. By about
the sixth pass, Mary saw it, too, following my pointed finger.
Nobody had stolen it yet. Despite being up so high, that might
have been our low point.
I take that back. I felt worse when we returned to the car in
the dark parking lot. Windows wide open. Keys still in it.
Some people may have tried to steal it. But they probably changed
their minds when they detected the smell of burnt fabric and saw
the sickness in the back seat.
The agony was prolonged upon our return. My dad had already left
to work his graveyard shift.
This was not something you talk to your mother about. So, I set
my alarm to be up and ready when my dad came home for breakfast.
Besides not having fun, I did not sleep well that night.
“Good morning, Dad. Morning, Mom.”
“Hey, good morning, Buckshot. Did you guys have fun yesterday?”
he asked.
“Your breakfast is about ready, hon,” Mom said, pecking me on
the cheek.
As luck would have it, they were in especially good moods.
“Yeah, it was okay. But I had a little problem with the car,”
I said.
“You didn’t have an accident?”
“No. Not that.”
“That’s good.” He seemed sincerely relieved.
“No. No accident. But I sort of burned a hole in the back seat.”
“What?”
“I burned a hole in the back seat.”
“How’d you do that?”
“I’m really sorry. But I flicked a cigarette out the window, and
it must have blown back in.”
“I’ve done that,” he said.
I waited for the hammer to fall. But he wasn’t even mad about
my smoking. I had never seen him so tolerant, so calm.
“Well, it’s a little more than a hole. It’s burned pretty bad,”
I finally had to offer.
“Really?”
“Yeah. I think you ought to come out and look at it.”
“Okay. After breakfast.”
“I think you really ought to look at it right away.”
“No. Let’s eat first.”
It was a very long breakfast. And one of the most difficult-to-digest
meals I’ve ever eaten.
Finally, after lounging over at least three cups of coffee, he
was ready to move. I rushed out ahead of him to get to the car
first. As he approached, I opened the back door for his inspection.
I will spare you the expletives. Suffice it say, his reaction contained
no less than one version of every bad word I’ve ever heard him
say. He built up to a scream and finished with, “I thought you
said it was a _____ hole!”
For some reason, he did not hurt me or get a court order. I wonder
if I’ll be as kind to Sammi.
In case I’m not, let’s just keep this story between us.
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