Off the Road

“We have plenty of time,” Jimmy said, outside the hospital. “He’s going nowhere.” 

“You know what?” I said, alighting the vehicle. “I should’ve driven.” 

The visiting hour was almost over when we arrived at Dad’s bedside. 

He looked pale and clammy and the nasal feeding tube didn’t do him any favours. 

His dry, rasping inhalations sounded as though he’d swallowed a sheet of sandpaper. 

I mouthed an apology, but he raised his hand and sighed. “Forget it, son, I just---”

Jimmy cut him off and launched into one of his endless ‘techie’ monologues. 

As he spouted forth, Dad strained for air and his face assumed a ruddy glow.

Jimmy predicted a future with speaking navigational aids and automatic steering.

Dad’s gnarled fingers curl into fists. He’d married a forthright woman who could handle a map, and his driving skills were second to none. The thought of a machine replacing their combined experience was unconscionable.

“Just think.” I smiled. “A talking map could’ve prevented all those rows on the road.”

“God bless her.” He sighed. “Her sense of direction was poor, but---”

“It’s the future, Dad,” said Jimmy.

“Damn the future!” 

“They’ve got the know-how and—-”

“Forget it, 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 never could 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 broach. In retrospect, it was the rear-view mirror that saved us from another merciless thrashing. Or worse.

#

My father had a thing about scratched paintwork and smeary windscreens. Rusty coachwork was his pet peeve, but rotten wheel arches provoked him into 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. 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, meanwhile 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.”

#

Jimmy and I learned about the family car business from an early age. Dad trusted me to drive the clients’ vehicles around the compound. I was an expert at manoeuvring cars, and my high-speed reversing was a sight to behold. The rear-view mirrors helped hone my skills. However, the fear of a sound beating spurred me on.

“Jack!” he’d say, “shift those newbies and get Jimmy started on the chrome.”

“Right, Dad, and then should I—-”

“I want the kid working up a sweat before you help him, 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 character-forming experience, or ‘character-deforming experience’ as jimmy put it. 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 washed, waxed and polished our hearts out. There’d be no word of appreciation. 

He expected no less. 

#

My brother hated his life in the Cassady household. One night, Jimmy told me he was going to run away. He’d got it all worked out. Jimmy had knotted his bed sheets and planned to escape out of our bedroom window. 

“Are you coming?” he said as he rammed essentials into his rucksack.

“You’ve just got to give it time, Jimmy.”

“Time?” he said, shaking his head. “You’re kidding me?”

“We have plenty of time,” I said, “it’ll all work out.”

“Trust you to say that,” he said, grinding his teeth. “I’m out of here.”

Dad was waiting for him, arms crossed, leaning against the silver birch. He’d heard Jimmy’s boots clattering on the exterior woodwork and the kitchen window crack as he’d abseiled down the house. Dangling seven feet above the ground, Jimmy discovered his homemade rope was too short. He wriggled out of the shoulder straps and let the rucksack fall before tumbling onto his back like a sack of potatoes. I heard Dad clear his throat as my brother hit the ground. Jimmy looked up to see my eyes wide in horror and hear my tremulous gasp. Without missing a beat, Jimmy picked himself up and brushed the dirt off his trousers. He sauntered straight past dad and walked back into the house. To be fair to Dad, he didn’t say a word either; but then I guess he didn’t need to. 

#

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. 

My brother and I discovered the beautiful old ‘49 Hudson Commodore Eight in one of the many rickety barns on the outskirts of Grandma Carrie’s land. It was way off the main road. 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, whitewall 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 a 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 it start?

Jimmy poked around behind the driver’s sun visor. Out dropped a tarnished key. We looked at each other. I tried the ignition. Not much chance of a spark, but we’d just found 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 luxurious leather-bound steering wheel and side-by-side we imagined escaping our farm on a westbound highway under endless skies, racing across prairies and flying over mountain tops; passing through abandoned towns in a whirl of grit and dust. Inside that sleek and spacious static vehicle, we discovered the freedom of the open road. Old Route 66 beckoned us to explore a world beyond the interstate; being anywhere else was so appealing at that age.

#

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 Carrie 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 inside the old barn and abandoned his responsibilities. He hit the road hard and moved on; Grandma didn’t see him again and my father never forgave him.

#

When I enquired about Grandpa Neal, Dad changed the subject. I probed him about refurbishing old wrecks, and he ignored me and walked off. I asked Grandma Carrie similar questions about the past, and her entire face came alive with a joyous smile. It was as though a lifelong friend had paid her an unexpected visit. She discussed 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. That was in an era before teenagers existed. She recalled witnessing her contemporaries reading poetry in smoky basement bars and attending all-night esoteric happenings. Those were exciting times. There was life and rebellion. It was the start of counterculture and the age of the automobile. 

#

Jimmy and I visited the sleek old vehicle often; fuelled by the accounts of Grandma’s adventures on the road. There was a standpipe close by, and we set about restoring our pride and joy. During the summer holidays we uncovered its former splendour; courtesy of materials purloined from Cassady Car Care. Towards the end of August, we’d refurbished the entire vehicle and lubricated 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 a two-gallon can across the fields. Siphoning the noxious liquid into the car’s tank was difficult to master, but we did it.

I remember the breathless moment as I crossed my fingers for luck and Jimmy rotated the ignition key.

The first turn, nothing happened.

A second time gave a little judder.

The third attempt brought the car to life.

Jimmy’s face was radiant and his eyes twinkled with mischief as the vehicle shuddered and belched exhaust fumes.

He lowered the clutch, levered the stick into first gear, pumped the gas, released the hand brake, and raised his left foot. The engine stalled. 

I grimaced. “Jeez, Jimmy.” 

He ground his teeth. 

Next time he 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. We took turns spinning it round in circles and crashed through the surrounding wheat fields with abandon; but not for long.

“Jimmy! Behind, look!”

There’s a bright light in the rear-view mirror. He pulls up short to get his bearings. It’s a vehicle’s headlights pointing at us from the road. A silhouette passes in front of the lights. It’s six hundred yards away and closing in.

“Hey there!” The distant figure waves a rifle in the air. “I see you!”

Jimmy kills the main beams.

A sharp crack of gunfire breaks the stillness.

He floors the gas and charges across the undulating ground in the murk. We get close to the barn and he swings the car around to reverse inside. The skulking moon’s pale glow is no help, and he fails. The car’s heavy iron unibody buckles the wooden door frame.

“You’ll pay for that!”

The car jerks forward, away from the damaged upright.

A second sharp crack echoes across the back lot. A bullet whips-by and ricochets off the sloping roof.

He engages the reverse gear, and we retreat 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. 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 under our respective beds. I’d never asked God for help before, but I muttered a prayer that night.

#

The front door slammed an hour later and the dead bolts crashed into place. The commotion disturbed my mother, and I heard our parents muttering downstairs.

My father said nothing in the morning or the next day. A week later, we visited the barn after our first day back at school. Someone had repaired the damage to the woodwork. And the Hudson? There was no sign it had ever existed. It was as if we’d given it a new life and permission to take off.

#

Before we left Dad’s bedside, I asked him why my mother had never got a driving licence.

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

#

It was at that moment I realised the truth. Jimmy and I had never planned our escape. We were never going to make it.

The End