A Girl. A Car. And a Hula Girl Bobblehead.

It’s been 63 days since Stan died.

60 days since his funeral.

3.5 weeks since the reading of Stan’s will, and 6 hours 27 minutes and 3 seconds, oh no, make that 5 seconds, since I closed on the house Stan left me in Montclair, NJ where I grew up.

Now, I’m sitting in the only other thing Stan left me: His 1972 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme Convertible. Cherry red. White leather seats. Original steering wheel. Also white.

He kept a pair of driving gloves in the glove compartment (literally used it for its intended purpose. That’s so Stan). The car is complete with hot pink fuzzy dice and a hula girl bobblehead attached to the dash. Also, very Stan.

Stan always said 1972 was the best year.

It was the year I was born.

It was the same year Stan’s jazz band, the Cool Cats, made it big—big enough for him to afford the car.

He paid in cash.

And according to Stan, 1972 was the last year Oldsmobile made the Cutlass Supreme Convertible.

It was also the last year Stan ever mentioned or acknowledged my mother. She bailed on us shortly after I was born, and he never mentioned her again. I don’t even think I know her name.

And after sorting through Stan’s stuff the past few weeks in preparation for selling the house, I don’t think I really knew Stan that well either.

I mean, Jesus Christ, I called him Stan, not Dad or Daddy, from the jump. That was just Stan’s vibe.

He wasn’t a bad father. He was just different. He kept a roof over my head, food on the table, clothes on my back, and encouraged my singing dreams. Let’s just say, if he had lived past my 25 years on this earth and saw me get married, we wouldn’t be doing a father/daughter dance to that cheesy Butterfly Kisses song that’s on every goddamn radio station these days.

Not Stan’s style. Not mine either.

Stan had two great loves in this world: jazz music and this car. I was probably third or fourth on the list definitely after The Blues Brothers movie. God, he loved that flick. I laugh out loud at a memory of him and I getting this car fired up one night and he pulled out his favorite Blues Brother’s quote like always:

“It’s 106 miles to Chicago, we got a full gas tank, half a pack of cigarettes, it’s dark…and we’re wearing sunglasses.”

And I’d say in response, “Hit it.”

It didn’t matter that we weren’t really 106 miles from Chicago. Stan smoked cigars, not cigarettes and we never wore sunglasses at night to his jazz gigs. But we repeated the call-and-response movie quote like clockwork every time we got in this car together.

I smirk to myself as I run my hand over the black leather of the dash. Dusty now from not being used since Stan was in the hospital for the last few months. I flick the pink dice and give a hard stare at the hula girl bobblehead. Stan said she came with the car. As a little girl, I believed him. But now, I’m not so sure. He named her Silvia. I asked him once if that was my mother’s name. He never confirmed or denied that it was. Something deep inside of me knows it is.

I take a deep breath. The car still smells like Tatiana Cherry Cigars. Stans favorite. I give the craftsman house with blue trim one more glance before I turn over the key in the ignition. The engine rumbles to life. I check my mirrors just like Stan taught me and head toward the direction of Interstate 80 to start my long journey west to Pasadena. Also, a part of Stan’s will.

I glance at the cigar box on the front seat next to me and refrain from rolling my eyes. Stan’s last request was to have his ashes spread in Griffith Park in LA. It was halfway between his childhood home in Pasadena and The Baked Potato in Studio City, the seedy jazz joint where he got his start. He would stop at Griffith Park for a smoke break and to dream.

Oh, but his will got even more specific than that. I have to drive there. In his car. And stop at certain cities along the way. And I have to stop in certain jazz clubs that were important to him. He said in his will to take my time, but I have to be back to New Jersey in 2 months one final time to clean the last of Stan’s stuff from the house before the new owners take over.

There are nine stops on the list: Cleveland, OH, Chicago, IL, Louisville, KY, Nashville, TN, Oklahoma City, OK, Albuquerque, NM, Flagstaff, AZ, and finally, Pasadena, Griffith Park, and Studio City.

Fun. Cool. Can’t wait.

I glance up to the heavens (I shouldn’t assume Stan headed in that direction, but I’m not above giving him the benefit of the doubt.) “Thanks, Stan, for the memories and the forced road trip to dump your ass in your final resting place.” I murmur to the midnight sky as I finally approach the interstate entrance.

It’s about 1 a.m. when I stumble upon an all-night diner just off of 80 in East Stroudsburg, PA. I fuel up from the gas station next door, and I order my favorite diner late-night fare: A slice of cherry pie, a vanilla milkshake, and french fries. While I wait, I move the silver napkin dispenser and the plastic salt and pepper shakers, so I can spread out the map I bought at the gas station to plot the rest of my road trip. I’m caught up in highways, byways, and interstates when a stumpy old guy with a white paper hat rolls up to my table with my food.

“Planning a vacation?” I look up and squint at the old man’s vintage nametag resting comfortably on his ample chest. His white t-shirt barely covers his round belly and is splattered with crusty grease stains. I shudder at the sight.

“Well, Al, I’m planning a burial.”

I was hoping my bluntness would scare him off, but all of a sudden I feel Al’s shadow shift to sit in the blue vinyl booth in front of me.

Crap.

“Ahh, spreading someone’s ashes?” I look up in surprise. “Yeah, how did you know?”

“Your face. Your energy. You’re wearing all black. Christ on a cracker, even your hair is all black. You’re either sad all the time or you’re in mourning this morning. See what I did there?”

He has the gall to wink at me. Shit. This guy’s trying to make a grief joke at 1:30 in the morning. For fucks sake.

I hate his description. It’s not mourning. This is what I always look like. I look up at the ceiling losing patience. But this is also a unique situation.

I sigh to myself. It’s not like I’ll ever see this guy again. So I spill. Everything. The whole damn story about Stan’s wishes.

“Wow,” Al shakes his head. “That’s quite a request.”

“Tell me about it,” I say as I look at the map and only crumbs on my now empty white diner plates. I look up when the quiet stretches too long between us. Al looks pensive.

“Listen, here’s what I’m going to do. I have a cousin in Cleveland. His name is Eddie. I’m going to give you his phone number, and when you get there, you call him. Eddie has…connections. They will help you the rest of the way from there.”

He writes Eddie’s name and number down on an order slip, rips it off from his pad, and slides it across the table.

“Call him when you get to Cleveland,” He says with an insistent tap of his thick middle finger on the slip.

“Yes, sir.” I give him a mock salute as I gather my things.

“I’m serious, Stella. Eddie will help you.”

“Okay, I got it.”

I’m about to push the diner door open when Al stops me and forces me to turn around.

“Here’s a cup of coffee to go. On the house. There’s not much going on between here and Cleveland. You’ll need the caffeine.”

I stare at the cup for a minute too long and swallow around the lump forming in my throat. Damn it. I hate it when people are nice to me. I don’t know how to take it. He shakes the cup a little, luckily, without spilling a drop.

I take it. I clear my throat.

“Thanks, Al…For everything.” He gives me a nod and swings the rag he was wiping the counter with over his shoulder.

Al’s right. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, between East Stroudsburg, PA, and Cleveland. It’s a blink of an eye and I’m in Ohio.

I look down the main street of downtown Cleveland as I push myself to get out of the car. I stretch and look around clocking a pay phone across the street. It’s 8 a.m., maybe too early to call Al’s cousin, but I want to get this show on the road. Literally.

I pull the order slip out of my black jean shorts and jog over to the pay phone. I have to trust that this guy isn’t a serial killer. Al was super nice. He didn’t seem like he’d come from a family of serial killers, right?

Well, a more immediate problem presents itself. I pat my pockets for phone change. “Yes!” I found 35 cents in my back pocket. I can’t believe they upped the pay phone rate by 10 cents. Annoying. Otherwise, I might have had to call collect. Nobody has time for that at 8 a.m. on a Tuesday. I blow off the lint from the change and make the call.

Someone with a deep voice picks up on the third ring.

“Hello? Daisy Donuts. We only give you discounts on the days that end in y,” the voice sounds bored.

I pull back the receiver and make a face at the phone. What the hell? That means discounts are every day. I shake my head and roll my eyes to myself. Midwesterners are so weird.

“Ah, hi, yeah, is this Eddie?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“It’s Stella. I spoke with your cousin Al, last night. Well, I guess it was earlier this morning. I’m driving to Pasadena. He said you could help me?”

Life and enthusiasm fill the phone line.

“YES! STELLA!” I pull the phone back again, but only because Eddie has become so damn loud. Al and his family are something else. I shake my head again and pull the phone back to my ear.

“Well, will you help me?”

“Of course, meet me at 4578 Ceder Oak Ave at 11 a.m. We’ll work everything out then! I can’t wait to meet you, Stella!”

I jog back to Stan’s car and study the map so I can find where I’m supposed to be at 11 a.m. After I figure out my shit, I put the map on the floor on the passenger side since it doesn’t fit on the seat.

My left arm bumps the hula bobblehead wildly to the left. Her fake black hair and plastic green hula skirt fluctuate back and forth at a fast pace. It’s almost hypnotizing.

The caffeine must be wearing off because I’m hit with an intense need to take a nap. I look around and see that the town is still taking advantage of sleep at this hour. There is no one out on the sidewalk yet.

I shrug and lean back in my seat. No one will mind if I take a little snooz-a-roonie. Just five minutes is all I need. I’m just going to rest…my eyes…just…for…a…minute…

I sit up with a start. “What time is it?!” I say out loud to no one. At least, I think it’s no one until I hear a voice answer me.

“It’s 11 a.m., sweet pea.” A man who’s smacking his pink bubble gum responds back.

I startle again when I turn my head to see a man probably around my age with the biggest 70s-style sunglasses resting on his honker of a nose sitting in the passenger seat of Stan’s car.

I scream, which startles the man.

“Who the hell are you? And who the fuck are you calling, sweet pea? And why are you dressed like that?” I gesture to the man’s ridiculous brown bell bottoms, platform shoes, and tight-ass orange button-down that’s so tight I can see small tufts of hair peeking out from the oversized collar.

“Did you just come from a disco?” I asked still staring at this man’s hideous get-up.

The man looks smug.

“I did, actually. And I’m just trying to stay alive, sweet…I mean, Stella.”

“Woah. Woah. How do you know my name?”

“I’m Eddie, and I’m here to help you.” He extends his hand which is the size of my whole face.

I slap it away. “Wait, wait. Are you Al’s cousin, Eddie!?” I can hear my voice raising an octave trying to wrap my brain around what’s happening right now.

“You know my baby cousin, Al? Ohhh. Right. You spoke with adult Al. At the diner. Yeah, I always get this part messed up. Every time. I’m still getting used to time travel rules. I’m new at this.”

“What. The. Actual. Fuck.” I say as I back away trying to fold myself into the door. I’m too shocked to get out. Plus, this is Stan’s car. My car now, and I’m not giving it up without a fight.

“Explain what you just said. Did you say…did you say, time travel?!?”

“I sure did,” he says with a jovial smile like talking about time travel is no big deal.

“When you hit the hula girl on the dash of this sweet sweet car, it transported you back to 1970. This is a part of your trip. You’re not only traveling to all of these cities to honor Stan, but you’re going back in time to truly understand how he came to be who you knew him to be. But you’re doing it in reverse. In each city, you’ll keep going back to visit younger and younger Stan until you get to Pasadena. You’ll meet teenaged Stan right before he goes on his first jazz tour where he met your mom. That little hula bobblehead has a lot of power. More than you ever realized.”

I try to take a deep breath absorbing this information.

“Silvia can go fuck herself,” I whisper under my breath.

I give her a death stare and go to reverse engineer this nonsense by slapping her stupid bobblehead the other way. But Eddie grabs my wrist to stop me.

“Hey now,” he says with a firmness you would never guess he could muster based on his current look.

“It’s not time to move on yet. There are things you need to do here.”

I wriggle my wrist back and rub where he pressed. “Like what? And where’s here?”

“Well, you’ll have to figure the first part out for yourself.” He looks out the windshield toward a couple on the sidewalk having an argument.

I look too. “Wait, is that.” I look again and squint harder.

“Is that…Stan?”

“Yup! And we’re in Cleveland in 1970. Good luck!” I feel him pat my arm as I continue to stare at this much younger version of my father. It’s surreal.

“Wha..” I look over and Eddie is gone.

I look around outside. What do I do now? Stan and this woman appear to be in their own little bubble until the shop owner of what appears to be a bakery comes out to break it up.

It’s Eddie now in a chef’s jacket with Daisy Donuts embroidered on the left breast pocket. He looks and winks at me before he addresses Stan to take it elsewhere or he’ll call the police.

Jesus. What parallel universe have I fallen into? What happens if I tap the hula girl bobblehead too early? Will my dad recognize me? What do I do now?

For the first time since I turned 18 and left Jersey for Manhattan, a tear falls down my cheek.