Slot Car

My feet felt as if they’d been cast in concrete. I stood motionless at the end of the walkway that lead to my family home. “Honey? Your mom is waiting inside.” 

“I’ll be right there.” My wife looked good in black. Her long black hair and thick lashes, the way her tan skin looked smooth against the dark fabric. I watched her walk in, and peak at me as she closed the door. She was worried. I could always tell. I didn’t want to go in. I didn’t want it to be true so I stayed looking toward the white brick house. I remember how we used to play catch in the front yard and the wooden swing that hung by rope from the oak tree by the porch. I remember the flowers that would hang in the spring, and the white rocking chairs my dad and mom would sit in for what felt like hours, just talking and laughing. The laughing brought tears to my eyes. When was the last time I heard his laugh? 

The house was full of friends and family. As entered I could see my wife and son sitting by the fire. Above the fireplace was a 16”x20” portrait of my dad. He wore a faded GMC cap and he was sitting back holding a cigar with a big grin. My mom was sitting in the kitchen looking through one of the old photo albums. Her silver hair was done up and she had that puzzled, waiting for something look in her eyes. Somehow, she didn’t look right in black I thought. “Mom” my voice cracked. 

“Andrew. It so good to see you.” She replied with tears in her eyes. She reached out her arms. I hugged her tight. Tighter than I could ever remember hugging her. “I can’t believe he’s gone.” I tried to hold back tears, “Im really going to miss him.” She stepped back and wiped her eyes and smiled. “Did you see Erica? She has been asking about you.” It was just like her to think of everyone else. “I’ll find her. I’m gonna head downstairs for bit.” She patted my shoulder then greeted another friend coming down the hall. 

I walked past the guests and down toward the basement. I stepped slowly down the wooden framed steps and stopped to breathe in the stale air. It smelled of cedar wood and dust. His books were neatly stacked and his desk was tidy. I could tell by the dust that he hadn’t been down here in a long time. A picture of us on a drift boat holding up lake trout sat to the side. 

My head was heavy and my heart felt like it had been peeled open. In the corner of the room I noticed the old footlocker I used to keep under my bed. I stooped down and felt the smooth wooden edges and the brass latch as I lifted the lid. Inside were some old journals, a newspaper clipping of the 1998 World Series and my cherished baseball card collection from middle school. At the bottom, wrapped in cloth I found a hand made toy car. The white paint cracked and scratched. My hands started to tremble. “This old thing!” The wheels were bright red with a big red number seven painted on the side to match the wheels. My eyes swelled. I put the car down and moved it back and forth on the top of the chest.

I must have been five or six when we built it. We were going to race it in the neighborhood slot car derby. I was so excited I named it red rocket, but my dad only laughed and said we should pick something else. I get it now. We settled on Greased Lightning and carved it into the back. He carved the body from a branch that fell off the oak tree out front. The wheels we bought at a hobby store. It’s all about the curves he would say, it’s the way cuts through the air that counts, his hand knifing the air as he spoke. On the underside we carved our initials. A.C + WC. Andrew Clark and William Clark. I remember when I took it out to the sidewalk to see it roll for the first time. He brought a can of WD40 to spray the axels with “We can’t let ol’ greased lightning run without a little grease now can we?” I just laughed. He always knew how to make me laugh. It was fast. Faster than any hot wheel and it rolled straight clunking over the gaps in the concrete, bouncing left and right, making that scratchy rolling sound all the way. I must have rolled it a hundred times and he stood beside me the whole time. “A regular Mario Andretti!” He said with a big teeth showing grin. Now as I held that little car I had the feeling he was right beside me, still smiling. I could feel his hand around my shoulder “what do you think buck?” 

“We’re gonna win dad! It’s so fast. I can’t wait.” 

The light glared now through a narrow transom window onto the desk. Little particles of dust floated above the toy. I spun the car on the desk with my fingers. Remember the race? It was dead summer. The pavement was like a hot plate. I thought the wheels would melt. All the boys from the neighborhood had shown up. There must have been five cars. Or was it seven? We had the only white one, the paint glinted beneath the sun. Billy’s dad had the starting flag, I remember the wave. All the cars shot forward down the middle of the street in their own little lanes made from cardboard, bouncing and scraping. There was a little blue and yellow car with a spoiler that crashed. It felt like slow motion. Me and some of the other boys started off down the side of the makeshift track shouting as if the sound waves would propel our cars forward. I remember the finish line. The red number seven rolling past the cardboard bumper and flipping on its side. The wave of a checkered flag, and my dad lifting me up “way to go buck. You won.” He put me high on his shoulders and paraded me around on the street. “Greased lightning wins the cup!” Billy’s dad gave me a thumbs up. 

My heart mended slightly with the memory of it. I leaned back and felt a small hand grab my forearm. “Hey dad. I was looking for you.” My son was about the age I was when we built that little car. “What are you doing in grandpas library?” 

“Just looking at some things. Thinking of him.” He hopped in my lap. 

“What’s that?” 

I picked up the car and held it in front of him and he grabbed it. “Cool car. It looks old” 

“Your grandpa and I built that when I was your age. We called it greased lighting”

“Greased?” 

“Because it’s fast!” 

“Can I play with it?” He was rolling the car around looking at each side and examine the scrapes and scuffs. 

“Hold on, we need one thing first.” I stood and started looking through the desk drawers. 

“Dad?” 

“Got it!” I said “we have to grease the axles a bit.” I shook the rusted can of WD40 turned the car over and sprayed both axles near the wheels. “Now you can try it.” 

“Cool.” He sat down placing the car neatly in front of him. “Ready?” He asked turning back to see my face. He gave the car a good push and it rattled and rolled to the other end of the room. 

“Your grandpa loved showing me how to build things. We built it for a slot car race against other kids on the street.” I said “told you it was fast.”

I stood from the chair and picked up the car and handed it down. “This car meant a lot to me. It still does. It’s more than a toy now, it’s a memory of your grandpa” I could feel the tears coming back. “When I look at that car I can see his face smiling, his hands working and I can see all of the good things we ever did together. Now it’s yours buck. I want you to have it.” 

He smiled big and ran up the stairs yelling “let’s try it outside.”

I followed behind, moving through the crowded hall and great room. The guests looked confused as we ran out the door. I couldn’t help but laugh, “Ok Mario Andretti, roll it.”