Negotiating the Car

When my parents asked if the car was coming with them to assisted living, initially I thought it was the perfect time to get rid of it. I soon learned they weren’t ready to lose all their freedom. It was the illusion of escape they wanted to hold onto. It made sense. God knows I’d want to do the same.

People always say you have to pick your battles. I’ve learned that’s true, but it seemed every time I let down my defenses, they not only noticed…they pounced. In the next breath, my mom mentioned driving in daylight as her eyes plagued by macular appeared to work well enough in sunlight and my dad thought he could cover the night shift.

I always wonder why some families wait for days before notifying police of a missing relative. Don’t they know within a couple hours? Surely, by morning. But as my parents aged, I came to a new understanding.

In their prime, it was hard to keep track of them. They were constantly on the go. Often in peril, but somehow they managed to turn up without a scratch.

I remember one time trying to reach them without luck. I started to worry after a few days and a multitude of messages, and then one day they called. Supposedly they’d lost interest in the dreary Seattle weather and driven south in pursuit of sun. They ended up in Morro Bay, way down the coast of California, sitting at an outdoor cafe listening to a washboard band while watching fisherman unload the catch of the day.

Another adventure involved their 30-year-old Cadillac and a road trip from Palm Springs to Seattle. I can imagine when that tuna boat rolled off the assembly line it was quite something. Now I questioned the reliability of the car for such a journey, but my mom told me not to worry…they’d given her one of those quick and dirty lube jobs.

For its’ years, the car was in mint condition. The only noticeable flaw was the felt headliner, which had come loose. When we were kids, my parents kept it in place with thousands of silver thumbtacks. “Think of them as stars” they told us. I was working with the idea until the sun started baking those black seats, so I rolled down the window and the tacks took off like a meteor shower.

Somehow the headliner was back in place and they were rolling down the highway. A few days later my phone rang.

“Your father and I are lucky to be alive.”

“Mom, we’re all lucky. These are trying times.” I said.

“No, I mean we are REALLY lucky. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the intensity of that heat or the sound of the windows popping out.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, “Are you guys talking about the Caddy?”

“Yep. The old girl’s kaput.” she said.

“Are you okay?”

“Oh sure, just a little shaken up is all.”

That’s when she told me how the car exploded…literally burst into a ball of flames on Interstate 5 outside Sacramento. They were driving along and without warning there was a pop…then a bang…followed by some loud hissing noise, and the next thing they knew the entire car was engulfed in flames.

My parents desperately tried to pull themselves from the burning wreckage while BMW’s and Land Rovers continued to whiz by, some slowing slightly to look for casualties before speeding up again.

“Six Mexicans saved us,” my mom said. “They jumped out of their truck and came running, pulling out all of our belongings and even pried open the trunk to get your dad’s accordion. It was incredible! Unfortunately they didn’t speak English, but everyone was smiling and hugging just the same.”

I told myself that I wasn’t going to get political, but there seems to be a lot of hoopla over immigration nowadays. We hear politicians talk of walls and guards, even fanged dogs. I can’t say that this incident encouraged my parents to celebrate Cinco de Mayo with more gusto, but when they needed help, the last thing on their minds was whether or not those six brave men had crossed the border and overstayed their welcome.

This is the way I always thought life would be. My parents, a couple of reincarnated stuntmen crushing life. The next thing I knew they were old and I could no more gauge who I would encounter at our next meeting than predict the Second Coming.

After the move to assisted living I assumed their road warrior shenanigans would have to be curbed, but my dad had other ideas. Somehow he’d forgotten his altercation with a few parked cars…or was it a tree? Anyway, we thought that was the end of it and the keys were on lockdown, but he was ready to burn more rubber.

One of the last times I visited them was during a particularly warm summer. One of those few days each year that people curse their decision to save a few bucks and forego installing air-conditioning. My parent’s apartment turned into a frickin’ sweat lodge in the Mojave, so I could hardly blame my ninety-two-year-old dad when he informed us he was going to sit in the car and “turn on the air.” He shuffled out the door, dressed in his flannel pajamas, sheepskin slippers and terrycloth robe.

About an hour later, my mom let out a heavy sigh and said, “I worry about your dad in the car. You always hear of people dying of exhaust fumes.”

“Mom, the car’s not in the garage. It’s outside in your parking space.” I said, remembering that’s where I saw the old Lexus when the Uber driver dropped me off.

She hurried to the window. Just like she suspected, the car was gone.

We started calling his usual haunts, but no one had seen him. Just as we decided to alert the police, in walked my dad, sporting a smile the size of a quarter moon. He had driven to the university, down the narrow streets of Greek Row, and pulled to a stop in front of his old fraternity, a place that held his best memories.

As it was Friday night around party time, there were a few young frat brothers on the roof drinking beer. I can only imagine what the guys must have thought, staring down at an old man dragging his walker to the front door, his hair disheveled, in his flannels and sheepskin.

They hustled down from their lookout and met him in mid-knock. As they opened the door, there stood my dad, his hand expended to give them the official fraternity handshake…that no one seemed to know.

“How about a tour of the old place?” He asked, and the upperclassmen pointed to a freshmen pledge, who was left to shuffle him around the first floor, like they were knee-deep in quicksand.

“Ever heard of a dust mop?” Dad asked the pledge.

“Obviously not,” the young boy said, looking around as if for the first time.

Once they realized my dad was not one of the stuffy alums who wanted to see if they were treating the remodeled place with care, the other drunken lads joined the tour. For a few hours they swapped stories and drank beer. My dad’s Class of ’48 antics paled in comparison to their Animal House sexcapades and my dad admitted to the guys that he wanted a “do over.”

By the time he got home, still holding fast to his red Solo cup, we were a wreck…but he couldn’t have been happier, determined to return the next day with a mop and a pony keg of beer.