Talking Cars

On the final occasion we visited Dad in hospital our last conversation was about cars. Jimmy predicted a future with speaking navigation aids and the possibility of driverless vehicles. As he spouted forth, Dad’s face assumed a ruddy glow and his gnarly fingers curled into fists. Our father loved talking cars but talking about talking cars? Never. He’d married a forthright woman who could handle a map and gave adequate travel directions; a machine to replace her talents was inconceivable.

“Just think, Dad,” I said. “A talking map could’ve ended all those arguments on the road.”

“Granted,” he said, “your mother’s guidance was mediocre, God bless her, however---”

“It’s the future, Dad,” said Jimmy.

“The future be damned!” 

“They’ve got the know-how and—-”

“Forget the future, son---”

“But, Dad---”

“It ain’t going to happen!” His face flushed with a rich burgundy hue, and the veins in his temples throbbed as if they’d explode. Dad couldn’t bear Jimmy’s lip. I’m not saying our last hospital visit killed him, but it didn’t help. Thank goodness we didn’t mention the night of the Hudson. That was the one episode from our youth we knew never to recall in his company. Looking back at the incident, it was looking back in the rear-view mirror that saved us from another merciless thrashing, or worse.

#

My father had a thing about scratched paintwork and smeary windscreens. He struggled to care for cars that hadn’t been cared for. Rusty coachwork was his pet peeve, but rotten wheel arches provoked him to incandescent rage. As proprietor of Cassady Car Care, he made his money from rejuvenating cars and valeting vehicles.

If he was curt with clients he didn’t mean to be mean, if you know what I mean. He’d bite his lip rather than lose a customer. Moaning in the car-care industry is a big ‘no-no’ and grumbling looks ungracious whilst charging top dollar to fix up a dishevelled jalopy.

“The customer is always right,” he’d say, planting his tongue in his cheek, “even if their car is a dilapidated wreck, right?”

“Sure thing,” I’d say, nudging Jimmy.

”What? Yeah, of course, Dad.”

My father went to great lengths to attract customers by creating appealing local adverts and snappy strap lines. His latest business cards had an embossed typeface, glinting foil facia and assured new clients; “Cassady Car Care cares for all your car’s car cares.”

#

Jimmy, and I learned about the family valeting business from an early age. Dad trusted me to drive the clients’ vehicles around the compound. For fear of a beating, I became an expert at car manoeuvres and with the help of side and rear-view mirrors, my high speed reversing was a sight to behold.

“Jack!” he’d say, “get Jimmy started on the dashboard and buff those hubs.”

“Right, Dad, and after I—-”

”I want them gleaming before you consider helping the kid inside, right?”

At junior high school, Dad insisted we help wash and polish on Saturday mornings. Our summer holidays comprised soapsuds, turtle-wax and chrome cleaner. It was all meant to be good character deforming - I mean, character forming experience. Whatever. We learned about the car business from the ground up and in retrospect we discovered a great deal about our father, too. He was a perfectionist, period. We could never attain his benchmark; no matter how hard we tried. In his eyes we’d never cut it, even when we cut corners and cut the time per vehicle and cut a good deal. There’d be no word of appreciation. He expected no less. 

#

Dad allowed us to relax on Sundays, after attending morning mass. The afternoons were ours and we’d scamper off across the fields to the sanctuary of our secret hideout; the long forgotten garage and our faithful old Hudson. Behind the wheel of our luxurious sedan we imagined we were escaping from the farm; racing across prairies and flying over mountain tops; being anywhere else was so appealing at that age.

#

My brother and I discovered the beautiful old ‘49 Hudson Commodore Eight in one of the many rickety barns on the outskirts of Grandma Carolyn’s land. It was way off the main road and out of sight from passing traffic and snooping repo men.

When we first removed the tarpaulin, our eyes popped out of their sockets. We believed we’d found an alien spaceship; its sleek lines and aerodynamic construction were out of this world. We were used to boxy-looking gas guzzlers with late 70s lines and acres of overblown aluminium painted either bright red, sky blue or tropical orange. This gorgeous old car was a shade of deep maroon with large hubcaps, white wall tires, a chrome grille guard and the distinctive rear fender skirts that gave it the streamlined appearance.

Jimmy and I were in automobile heaven. The Hudson appeared to be intact, although it was ill-kempt and tired, but not unsalvageable. The local rodents must have spotted the open window, and without invitation made their new home under the brown Bedford cord upholstery. We inspected the interior and found desiccated mouse remains and what amounted to an abandoned bird’s nest.

But would the Hudson start?

Jimmy poked around behind the driver’s sun visor. Out dropped a tarnished key. We looked at each other and tried the ignition. Not much chance of a spark. Maybe with a little perseverance? We had ourselves a summer project.

I pushed the barn doors wide open and Jimmy shuffled along the brown cord upholstered bench. His grubby paws wiped the cobwebs from the leather-bound steering wheel and side-by-side we imagined speeding on a westbound highway under endless skies, passing through small towns and impressive landscapes in a whirl of grit and dust. From inside that sleek and spacious static vehicle we discovered a sense of the freedom of the open road. Old Route 66 beckoned us to explore a world beyond the interstate.

#

The Hudson Motor Company built the Commodore to run on smooth asphalt at high speeds and legend says it was reliable over long distances. Grandma recalled how Grandpa Neal had driven her at 90 mph from coast to coast and everywhere in between until the day the money ran out. When the car loan company came looking for their vehicle, he hid it on blocks in the old barn and abandoned his responsibilities. The car wasn’t the only thing he left behind; Grandma didn’t see him again and my father never forgave him.

#

When I enquired about his father, Dad changed the subject and then ignored me when I probed him about refurbishing old wrecks. Grandma Carolyn was more responsive to questions. She told me all about her life after the war and how they made things last by ‘mending and making do’.

As a young woman she listened to jazz and blues music in an era before teenagers existed. She recalled witnessing her contemporaries reading poetry in smoky basement bars and attending all-night esoteric happenings. They were exciting times. There was life and rebellion and the genesis of a counter culture. At the time, nobody imagined their involvement would transform the way future generations viewed the world.

#

Jimmy and I visited the sleek old vehicle often; fuelled by the accounts of Grandma’s adventures on the road. There was a stand pipe close by and we set about restoring our pride and joy to reveal its former splendour; courtesy of materials from Cassady Car Care. Towards the end of our summer holidays, we managed to refurbish the entire vehicle and lubricate all its moving parts. We removed the wooden blocks and jacked the vehicle down onto the dirt floor.

Together we acquired some gas and dragged the two gallon can across the fields to our barn. Siphoning the noxious liquid into the car’s tank was difficult to master, but we did it.

I remember the breathless moment behind the wheel as I crossed my fingers for luck and turned the ignition key.

Once gave us nothing.

Twice was just a judder.

A third time and it turned over.

Jack’s face was radiant and his eyes twinkled with mischief as the vehicle shuddered to life and belched out exhaust fumes.

I lowered the clutch, levered the stick into first gear, pumped the gas, released the hand brake, and gently raised my left foot. The engine stalled. I grimaced.

Jimmy ground his teeth, “Jeez, Jack.” 

Next time I got it right, and we rolled forward. “Yes…”

Before long we were chugging around the deserted back lot; our front beams carving golden arcs through the twilight murk. We took turns spinning it round in circles and crashing through the surrounding wheat fields with abandon; but not for long.

“Jack! Behind, look!”

In the dark rear-view mirror Jimmy had seen a burst of light. I pulled up short, to get our bearings. The light was moving from the road and heading in our direction. The source was maybe six hundred yards away and closing in.

”Be off with you!” A distant figure was approaching and waving a rifle in the air. “I see you now!”

Jimmy killed the main beams.

A sharp crack of gunfire broke the stillness.

I floored the gas and charged blindly across the undulating ground. Once we got close to the barn, I swung the car around to reverse inside. The skulking moon’s pale glow was little help and I failed. The building’s door frame buckled and splintered from the impact of the car’s solid iron unibody.

“Vermin! I’ll make you pay!”

The car jerked forward away from the damaged upright.

A second sharp crack echoed across the back lot as a bullet whipped-by overhead and ricocheted off the barn‘s sloping roof.

I engaged the reverse gear and retreated back inside the wooden shelter.

A third warning shot wasn’t necessary. We ran for our lives using the tall meadow grass as cover, and circled past the prowling figure at ground level. His flashlight’s piercing beam raked over the swaying crops inches above our trembling bodies. How he didn’t catch us, I’ll never know.

#

When we reached home, we tiptoed up the staircase and hid in our separate bedrooms. I was never inclined to ask God for help, but boy did I mutter a prayer under my breath that night.

#

We heard the front door slam shut an hour later. The security bolt and chain crashed into place. The commotion disturbed my mother, and we heard our parents muttering downstairs.

My father said nothing the next day or the day after. A week later, we visited the barn after our first day back at school. The damage to the building had been repaired. And the Hudson? It was as if it had never existed.

#

Before we left Dad’s hospital bed for the last time, I asked him why my mother had never got a driving licence.

“Well,“ he said, “I guess some people are born to drive and others are born to be driven.”

The End