Car Stories 2: Near Death Experiences with Ice Cream

                When I shared about the cars of my youth, I initially shared only those cars which caused embarrassment.  There were other cars both cool and quirky.  Anyone who has driven a used car (clunker or otherwise) knows that each mile you drive is a borrowed mile and eventually your car just stops working, unable to be resuscitated even by the most talented of shade tree mechanics. 

                Based on the slight uptick in the quality of the cars once we moved to Paris (in Texas, which I shouldn’t have to keep reminding you, but I guess you’re just not paying enough attention) the management of a motel seemed to be a reasonably consistent money-maker.  Whether acute embarrassment, engine failure or the incongruity of owning an Estate Wagon without said Estate around which to drive it, was the cause of us relinquishing ownership of the previously mentioned behemoth of a ’76 Caprice Classic, we quickly shifted gears and found ourselves the operators of a 1983 Mazda GLC Hatchback!

 It was red and very, very cool and had custom speakers that were encased inside little black wooden boxes that sat in the back window and would be flung into the back of the head of anyone sitting in the back seat if the hatch were opened or the brakes were slammed, or the car swerved suddenly.  You wouldn’t think these events would happen very often, but you would be wrong, especially the swerving.  My sister is not one to brake when necessary, she simply changes her route around the slowing object without reducing her speed, whether the new terrain is paved or not.

One of the things that my parents never knew was how dangerously this particular car was operated on the 60-mile round trip from Paris proper to the boons of Bogata to the 1A Rivercrest High School.  My sister, unlike me, was not a conscientious student and was prone to leave things like homework, book reports, and the like until the last minute, leaving her scrambling most every day.  Honor student that I have always been (sarcastic comments that I often made from the back row of my classes notwithstanding) I was never unprepared for each school day.  Other than monumentally impressive Farrah-hair that could withstand hurricane force winds, my sister was typically unprepared for most school days, especially book reports.

A fan of romance novels and Gone with the Wind, my sister was a voracious reader but only of the topics she chose.  Unfortunately for her, LaVyrle Spencer and Debbie Macomber were never part of the English curriculum of public schools in Texas.  This left my sister to either threaten or cajole me to read the book and write the report for her or read the book under duress and procrastinate on the writing of the book report in the hopes that some tragedy would befall our community and the school would be forced to close on that particular day.  Mind you, she didn’t actually pray for anyone to be hurt in order for her to avoid writing the report, but she was willing to deal with the psychological situation should someone’s sacrifice be required.

On those days, when the morning news did not carry any word on the destruction of the school, she would maneuver the car from within the parking lot of our home (at the motel) all the way to the outskirts of town, paying as much attention as one can when rocking out to Tears for Fears or (King) George Strait, with earrings large enough to serve up some chips and salsa, y’all.   

Once we hit the city limits and the traffic on Highway 271 reduced considerably, she would turn over the steering to me, while she wrote the book report in her notebook propped on the steering wheel.  Note that I didn’t mention that we had changed seats…because we had not.  I’ll let that sink in for a minute. 

Oh yes, dear readers, I steered from the passenger side of a little red hatchback while my sister wrote a book report in a notebook propped on the steering wheel of her car, speeding up and slowing down at my directions, including passing “pawpaws and mawmaws” and the occasional tractor, who committed the sin of enjoying their leisurely morning drive.  Where they were going is beyond me.  Didn’t they have chickens to feed or cows to milk? 

And that wasn’t the only thing that happened in that particular car that was nerve-wracking.  One time, on the way home from an away game during football season (we were both in band; I, a way-cool trumpet player, she the Captain of the flag corps), somewhere in the neighborhood of 11:00 pm, we ran out of gas before we made it home.  In those days, in that geographic area, there was no 24-hour anything, so finding late night petrol was an exercise in futility.  When we assessed our situation, stranded on an empty highway right in front of a cemetery, actually Meadowbrook Memorial Park as I believe it was called, with no cell phone and no inclination to walk the distance remaining to our home, we decided to sleep in the car until our parents and the search party they would have formed could find us. 

Mind you I got no sleep as I was awaiting death via stylized zombie dancing as Michael Jackson’s Thriller had invaded our world and embedded fear in anyone’s brain who had MTV.  We lived in a real town and, therefore, had cable.  We didn’t have to pay the rich guy in town to “steal” his satellite service like some people who shall remain unnamed. 

I had just closed my eyes, pretending to sleep after Shontyl had mocked my fear of an impending, albeit rhythmic, attack, when someone knocked on the window of the car.  We both screamed as loud as Drew Barrymore the first time she saw E.T.   The screams turned to joy, when we realized the face belonged to TJ, one of the residents of the motel who happened to be on her way home from a night of doing whatever you do when you are out late and smell of alcohol.  What?  I was Baptist and 13, my idea of nefarious nocturnal activities involved the secretive eating of pilfered food or trying to watch MTV after bedtime.  I made Mother Teresa seem like a wanton hussy, y’all.  Seriously.

On another occasion, we were tailgating an 18-wheeler (because that’s what yu do when your main goal in piloting a vehicle is to be “in the front”) and when he stopped suddenly, we almost hit him and Shontyl had to veer off the highway and into the grassy ditch.  Never one to allow a change of terrain to keep her from her goal of being “in the front”, she didn’t apply the brakes, even when we saw what appeared to be a six-foot long metal cylinder of acetylene.  As the offspring of a welder, we could identify these things quickly.  When it became clear we would hit it, my immediate thought was “I can’t die!  I’ve never met Madonna!”

Before you start rolling your eyes, remember this was 1986 and Madonna was white hot, people.  White hot!  And don’t act like you didn’t like her.  I didn’t single-handedly make her famous.  There were plenty of other people Material-girling across America.  I felt as strongly about Madonna as I did about my chances of being selected to appear on The Real World, Season 2, back in the early 90s.  Apparently my DUSTY:  THE BOXED SET wasn’t as clever (or desperate) as I thought.  Thank the Lord for small favors, y’all.  If I had ever been on TV I would be unemployable. Just sayin’.

Luckily the “acetylene tank” was actually one of those really long punching bags from a gym and we hit it, rolled right over it, got back on the road in front of the 18-wheeler and headed right on our way home.  Of course, we had to stop at Braum’s for a treat.  Nothing takes the edge off almost dying like chicken-fried steak sandwich with a two-scoop sundae on the side.  You wouldn’t think almost dying in a car was a frequent event, but you would be wrong.  I’m not saying going to Braum’s after every vehicular near-miss was the main reason I was chubby during my time at Rivercrest but it’s as good an excuse as anything else.  Am I right?

Definitely Fast, Not Necessarily Furious

              As we have previously discussed, on an average day the Light of Jesus shines from my face, y’all.  It’s true.  However, when you put me behind the wheel of a conveyance, be it automobile, moped, roller skate, bean truck, you’d be hard-pressed to believe I have ever entered a place of worship, much less have a relationship with God.  This is apparently genetic as The Dad and The Sister are aggressive drivers.  Even my sainted Mother, while never actually angry, drove with a heavy foot.  And I mean heavy; she once got a speeding ticket in Oklahoma on a highway with no posted speed limits.
                My recent trip to Red River County (TX) brought to mind an astonishing number of car-related memories with my sister considering she had her driver’s license for only the two years we lived in Paris.  In her defense, in those two years, we did commute 60 miles round trip from our home in Paris (TX) to the high school in Bogata, as my parents promised each of us that we could finish high school where we started, in direct conflict with our gypsy ways.  Let it be noted here that my sister was able to attend the same school for all four years of high school.  My brother was able to attend the same school for junior high and high school.  I, however, had to change in the middle of high school, even though I swear I’m not bitter or anything. 
                Once we had moved to Paris proper, I desperately wanted to go to Paris High; people there wore argyle and penny loafers; I had seen them at Mirabeau Square (or Malibu Square according to the Strawn Twins of Bogata proper), the local shopping center, home of Belk and JC Penney, where I was to procure my first pair of Reeboks, parachute pants and monogrammed button-downs. I was convinced there were many Blaines (from Pretty in Pink) at Paris High, knowing full well that I was more like a chubby Ducky than anyone else in that movie.  I preferred to think of myself as a male version of Molly Ringwald’s Andy, but we all know I used to suffer from delusions.
             My parents reply to my plea was, “Your sister wants to go to Rivercrest and you have to ride with her because it’s unsafe for a girl to drive that far alone.”  To Rivercrest we went, never once seeing the river or the crest for which the school was supposedly named.
              During those commutes, we had every sort of incident you could imagine while commandeering an array of used cars, which were replaced with alarming frequency.  I’m not sure if my parents accepted old cars as a form of payment for the apartments my mother managed, but we had a different car every couple of months, it seemed.  During this time, we drove a 1974 Buick Regal whose tailpipe would pop and spit flames if you punched the accelerator to pass someone, which happened every couple of miles as my sister’s goal was seemingly to be “ahead”; of everyone, I assumed. 
            This same car was what my sister was driving when we were pulled over for going 92 in a 55 MPH Zone and she cried her way out of a ticket, being told only, “Slow down, now.”  This will work only for women, dudes.  Trust me. I say that because I tried to cry my way out of a ticket once in Mississippi and the trooper accused me of being drunk and threatened me with arrest.  As it was 1989, I guess they didn’t have tasers, yet.  I’m sure he would have used his had the technology been available to him.
            Not long after that, we changed to a 1968 Oldsmobile Delta 88 with faulty brakes; a fact unknown to us at the time; at least until we tried to stop at that little store/lawn mower repair shop near Deport one morning.  When we attempted to slow down to turn, I was riding shotgun (in the front seat) while my sister drove, and my brother sat in the back seat.  
             I feel sure at least I wasn’t wearing a seat belt as, when the brakes failed, and my sister sailed through their little parking lot, skidding to a stop sideways, almost in the ditch, I sat up and found myself to be in the back seat with my brother as if we were being chauffeured to school.  I was lucky the Oldsmobile company had created a car so large you could host a Potluck Luncheon in the back seat and covered everything in thickly padded “leather”; I had no visible bruises other than to my ego as it was obvious that I was the source of the majority of the screeching sounds, not the brakes as you would guess, because my screeches didn’t stop as quickly as the cars.
             We also drove, at one point, a 1976 Caprice Classic Estate wagon, the size of which cannot be understated.  It was literally the size of a Winnebago or an 18-wheeler from JW Hunt.  You can Google it, I’ll wait.  We had no interesting adventures in this particular car, it was just embarrassing to own.  Really?  You’re expecting a mature attitude from a teenager in the 80s wearing three Swatches, parachute pants and a pair of double-tie Kaepa tennis shoes?  Ducky is dramatic, y’all.  It’s a thing.

What's Spanish for Annoying Loud Boy?

               As we have previously discussed, I have a passing familiarity with a number of languages, including French, Redneck, Spanish and Sign.  You name a language and odds are I can say ‘chicken’ and ‘bathroom’ with relative ease and accuracy.

                If you didn’t know, my first two years of high school my mother managed a motel called the Nicholson House in Paris, TX.  While it had a storied past, we were told, by 1984 it was a jewel past its prime, like Meg Ryan or a '78 Chrysler Cordoba. 

                Although I was embarrassed to admit we lived there, it was often fun.  We had a pool, Centipede in the game room, a Chinese Buffet in the lobby and I got to work the switchboard, which was something like Lily Tomlin one-ringy-dingying; there were cords that you plugged into the board and then dialed the number for the people.  You could even eavesdrop.  Not that I would ever do that.  I have no interest in secrets, dear reader.  The fact that the Rivercrest High newspaper staff named me “Most Likely to Tell a Secret” is coincidental at best.

                One of the unique traits of this particular establishment was that half of the rooms were kitchenettes that you could rent by the week or month.  This was particularly popular with construction crews that were attempting to gentrify the less fabulous parts of Paris proper.

                My sophomore year at Rivercrest High, I was taking beginner’s Spanish, but due to a car wreck or something our new teacher, Senora Franklin, had been unavailable and for the first couple of months of school we had a substitute teacher.  I got more useable Spanish from Morgan Freeman on The Electric Company, people.  Numbers and colors were mastered, do you hear me?  Verb tenses, not so much.  However, by Homecoming or so, Senora Franklin was no longer ausente (which is Spanish for absent).  Upon her arrival, in gauchos, knee boots and a side ponytail, we dove head first into conjugation which sounded dirty but wasn’t.  The first phrase I learned, unsurprisingly, was ‘calle te!’  That means ‘shut up’ in Spanish.  I learned this the second day of class.  Verbosity is my middle name; my last name is control.

                One evening, my mother and I were sitting in our apartment either reading or watching Knight Rider, when we heard a commotion in the parking lot.  My father had redesigned 6 motel rooms into a semblance of an apartment.  The best part was 5 bathrooms; the worst was my parent’s closet as well as mine, were turned into a hallway to access the other bedrooms.  Off the living room, there was a large balcony that overlooked the property, so my mother and I decided to investigate.  My Uncle Bill (my father’s sister’s husband) was the night watchman but he was hard of hearing and usually asleep. 

                The sight that greeted us was a large tenant of Hispanic origin who was being accosted by one of our more senior residents, Miss Lucille.  Her 92 ½ year-old, bottle-of-wine-a-day vision had led her to believe her fellow resident, wearing only khaki shorts and himself inebriated, was nude and she felt compelled to use her umbrella as the device to drive home her stance that this was, in fact, unacceptable.

                My mother, ever the problem solver, decided to intervene and I wanted to watch, but like Bette Midler, only from a distance.  My siblings were more entranced by David Hasslehoff.  In retrospect anything was better than Knight Rider.  In context, most things paled in comparison.  And don’t act like you didn’t watch, too.  My family did not singlehandedly keep that show in the Top 10.

                My mother, upon rebuffing Miss Lucille and redirecting her to her room with the promise of a free egg roll the next day at lunch, attempted to ask the gentleman if he was part of the road crew, managed by a man named Juan. 

                My mother said, “Do you work with Juan?”

                The Man said , “Que?”

                I interrupted “Moootherrrrr.  He is oooobviously Hispanic and of course I will have to interpret.”

                My mother, “I need someone who knows more than colors and numbers, sweetie, but thank you.”

                Me, “Mooootherrrr.  You know I am almost semi-fluent, right?  Riiiight?”

                My mother, “Okay, honey.  How do I ask him if he works for Juan?”

                Me (out loud), “Hmmm.  Well trabajar means ‘ to work’ so yo trabajo would be I work so tu trabaja would be you work so it’s a question so say (suddenly very loudly) TU TRABAJA CON JUAN.” Which if shown phonetically and I was being honest probably sounded more like TEW TRAYBAHO COWAN WAWUN. 

                She looks at me with that look (you know that look) but turns to him and attempts to repeat the phrase and I interrupt her to remind her to trill her Rs, so it’s more authentic.  Then I try to demonstrate how to trill one’s Rs.  From the balcony.  At top volume.  It’s a testament to her good nature that I was allowed to reach puberty.

                Of course, the entire time The Man was swaying gently and repeating “Que?  Que?”

                Realizing that neither of us had a knack for languages, my mother decided to mime “work”.  All the while I am screaming TEW TRAYBAHO COWAN WAWUN.  My mother starts to mime a shoveling motion and he stops swaying to watch her.  She keeps repeating, very loudly (it must be genetic) DO YOU WORK WITH JUAN followed by air-shoveling.  At one point she pats the ground and, misunderstanding, the man lay down in the parking lot and smiled a triumphant smile.

                Fortunately my screaming quasi-Spanish phrases had roused the aforementioned Juan who came out to collect his employee.  Feeling quite proud of my bilinguality, I said, “See?  I toooold you I could speak Spanish, moootherrrrr.”  She replied, “Yes you did, sweetie.  Good job.”

                And I always blamed my father for her looking tired all the time.