His Pride and Joy

His Pride and Joy



“And why do ya need the car? The bus most always works just fine.” My dad speared me with his stare.

I told him about The Enchanters, my high school’s select choir, having an early morning rehearsal because we needed extra practices for the state choral competition.

“Well, what about Wes?” he said, referring to my best friend. “There are times he picks you up in the mornin’.

I shook my head and explained, “Wes’s Studebaker is in the shop for a brake job. It won’t be ready for a couple days.”

“What about your mom? She might need the car for shoppin’ – or something else.”

I mentioned that Mom already told me that it was okay with her if I used the car because she didn’t need it tomorrow.

Dad looked down and examined the pieces of gravel in the driveway. After enough time passed to count a hundred pebbles, his head rose and turned toward the car. “I suppose if you promise to take care of it and don’t do anything dim-witted, it’ll be okay.”

His words expressed the type of “yes” I was accustomed to.

Taking note of the three, soft cloths hanging in the garage, I even promised to wipe it down after I used it.

My dad took pride in his 1955 Plymouth. He spent hours washing, waxing, and wiping that car. Even after short drives to town to pick up groceries, he grabbed one of three rags, lined up on pegs in the garage in order of cleanliness, and gave the pale green finish a once over, eradicating any trace of dust and stray specks of dirt. As Mom put it, “Your dad likes to take good care of his pride and joy.”



* * * * *

The next day after school, I leaned against the driver’s side door, waiting for my friends Wes and Dale in the student parking lot. I promised to give them a ride home. I was just returning the favor to Wes who often gave me lifts in Sophie, his 1948 brown Studebaker. As for Dale who lived two blocks from school? I was giving him a ride home via the scenic route.

A cheery “hi, nice looking car” snapped me to attention. Jill, who had walked with me everywhere during our recent honor society outing at Twanoh State Park, stood at the rear of the car, caressing the trunk lid with the back of her hand. She wasn’t one of the “popular” girls, but her straight brown hair, slim build, and even features exuded a desirable “girl-next-door” look. Her attention caused my pulse to quicken and my tongue to thicken.

I mumbled something about the Plymouth being like my dad’s girl friend – the only one my mom would allow.

She giggled, threw back her head, and pulled a strand of hair behind an ear. “What’cha gonna do now – go for a drive?” she asked in an offhand tone of voice, her gaze avoiding mine.

I wondered if she was angling for a ride home. My heart sunk a little after I told her I was waiting for Wes and Dale.

Her “ohh” hung suspended in mid-air until she added. “Well, I’d better hurry or I’ll miss the bus. See ya.”

As she turned to leave, I said, “See you in science tomorrow.” In fact, I looked forward to it.

Jill twirled in a full circle as she waved goodbye.

“Givin’ up a chick just for us? What a pal,” hollered Wes’s familiar voice. Dale’s high-pitched snicker followed close behind.

Dale’s arms spread out in mock wonder. “Man, what a cherry car. We’re gonna have to put her through her paces.”

I cringed. I didn’t want any incident to mar the day – or the car.

Wes dropped into the front passenger side. “Wow, genuine plastic!” He chuckled as he ran his hand across my dad’s see-through seat covers.

“Hey, man, I can’t help it if my father has a thing about cleanliness.” I looked in the rearview mirror as Dale poured his six foot plus frame into the back seat.

He reached in his shirt pocket for a cigarette. “Gotta match?” he asked.

Wes saved the day. “No, man! Smell that?” He sniffed the air.

Dale inhaled and shook his head. “I don’t smell nothin’.”

“Me neither,” Wes lectured, “and that’s the point. I’ll betcha anything this car’s never been smoked in, and you don’t want to be the first. Save your cigs till we can make some money off your trick.”

Although Dale didn't have the makings of a rocket scientist, he performed a couple of noteworthy stunts. Rubbing elbows in rare company, he joined a select group of people who could pry off bottle tops with his teeth. He also could inhale an entire Lucky Strike cigarette, from tip to butt, in a single breath. Wes and I sometimes made extra spending money from students who wagered against Dale.

I started the car and turned to Wes. “Do I need to take you to Blanchard’s today?”

“Nope. I only work Friday and Saturday this week,” he assured.

Wes was the trio’s working man. On weekends and sometimes after school, he was employed as a sales clerk at Blanchard’s Department Store. With his earnings and ten percent employee’s discount, he could afford the best wardrobe in high school. Plus, his curly, blond hair and sparkling blue eyes helped make him a lethal girl magnet.

“Where to?” I asked.

“The Projects, of course,” boomed the answer from both passengers.

I gulped, started the engine, backed up, and then pulled the family car out of the parking lot toward the highway.

The Projects surrounded our local road racing course, the rite of passage for any guy using his parent’s car for the first time. They were remnants of World War II housing, built to house the massive influx of wartime workers at the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard. Those barracks-like buildings had long since been bulldozed out of existence, but the road system still remained. A two mile loop with various side streets and cul-de-sacs stood in good driving condition. The “race course” consisted of a couple of straight stretches, a few curves, and something that passed for a chicane – in this case, an “S” turn where you needed to brake hard going in and gun it going out.

When we reached the road course, I braked to a dead stop at the starting line, consisting of a single white stripe brush-painted in a wavy line across the pavement. “I’ll time you,” Wes said, as he checked his wristwatch with a second hand.

I gave a “thumbs up”.

I didn’t know the record time for the one mile course. I didn’t even know what was considered a respectable time. I did know that my father’s ’55 Plymouth wouldn’t challenge either of them. It was a gutless wonder. For a fact, this car needed a running start on hills. Stopping on a steep hill meant backing down to the bottom and looking for an alternate route.

Remembering that The Projects’ course wound through semi-flat terrain, I felt grateful. And the flush of power coursed through my body (my own, not the car’s). If I could maneuver the car around the course in a decent time, I'd be satisfied.

“Ready – set – GO,” Wes sounded off.

Dale whooped like an Indian as I slammed the peddle to the metal. The car accelerated, and I dropped the gear shift into second, then third. Gaining momentum, the speedometer needle crawled to fifty, fifty-five, sixty. The chicane loomed closer, but I had practiced in my head what to do: brake, downshift to second, and gun it going out of the corner. The first two parts accomplished, I stepped on the gas pedal and stuff began to happen.

First, pointed in the wrong direction, I drifted toward the right-hand ditch. Seeing my error, I jerked the wheel to the left. Now, we were heading toward the other ditch. I swerved to the gravel on the shoulder and the car started fishtailing out of control. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Wes gripping the seat with both hands in jaw-clenching silence. Then something silver rocketed off to the left – then another jetted to the right. In utter desperation, I hit the brakes, and the car crunched to an abrupt stop, leaning at an odd angle against the road embankment.

I pried my fingers from the wheel. Wes had already opened the passenger side door and pushed himself to a standing position outside. Then he slapped his hands against his knees and bellowed with laughter. When I looked in the rearview mirror, Dale’s body lay horizontal, plastered against the back seat. His eyes closed and skin drawn tight across his face, he’d wedged his hands in the crack in the seat, looking like a gigantic mole burrowing to safety.

All of us took long, yawning breaths as our lives stopped flashing before our eyes. We were undamaged. But I wasn’t so sure about my dad’s pride and joy

We checked the car from front to rear. Although a little dusty, things appeared to be okay – except. The rear hubcaps! Both of them had vanished. Then I recalled those silver flashes when the car was fishtailing. If we didn’t find them, I’d be grounded. I could kiss my driving privileges goodbye till I moved out of the house.

We fanned out into a chaotic search pattern – running here and there in the tall grass bordering the road. The first hubcap was easy. It had popped off the left rear wheel and bounded up an embankment. Dale spied it first and lifted it over his head like a silver sports’ trophy, its chrome finish glinting in the filtered sunlight. Using the heel of his hand, Wes pounded it back into place on the rear wheel.

The second hubcap was a different story. Although we knew it shot off to the right, the vegetation swallowed it. We searched every clump of grass for a hundred yards. We even ventured all the way to the tree line. No luck! Frustrated, we even explored the other side of the road.

What was I going to do? It was getting late, and we couldn’t stay much longer.

Then Wes’s eyes sparkled and mouth curved upward with the question, “What about Swans’?”

His words flashed a ray of hope. Swans Wrecking Yard was located about a mile from us on the main highway – the perfect place to find a replacement hubcap. When we hurried through the door, my gaze was drawn like a magnet to the wall where chrome plated flying saucers hung in a neat display. Seeing nothing that matched, I asked, “Would you happen to have a 1955 Plymouth hubcap?’

The man behind the counter shook his head and spoke real slow. “Not that I know of. But you’re welcome to search the lot. Prob’ly cheaper anyway.” He motioned to the side door that led to the wrecking yard.

We searched up one row and down the next, finding nothing that matched. In the back of the yard, my eyes glommed onto an old hulk so smashed up, it was hard to tell its make or model. The wheels bare except for one, I took a close look. There it was – one matching hubcap with a small crease near the top. Although not perfect, it would have to do. We pooled our money, paid the man a buck-seventy-five, and popped it on my dad’s Plymouth. Except for the dent, it was a perfect match. Maybe Dad wouldn’t notice.

After dropping off Wes and Dale, I drove home. With great care, I pulled the car into the garage. After getting out, I inspected it from front to rear bumper. Other than a coat of dust, it looked almost perfect. Selecting the dirtiest soft cloth, I wiped down that car from hood to trunk. Then I took the next cleanest cloth and did the same. When I finished, the car gleamed.

A short time after dinner, my dad made his usual inspection of the car – part of his daily routine.

“Son, come here, right now!” his voiced resounded all the way to my bedroom. I knew I was in trouble. When I arrived at the garage, his glare bored a hole clean through me. “Whatcha been doin’ to this car?”

“What d’ya mean, Dad?” I responded in my most innocent voice.

“Look at them hubcaps!” His gaze shifted. “There’s dust and handprints all over ‘em.” Then, he jabbed his finger at the dented one. “And . . . how’d that get there?”

Mustering a sincere tone of voice, I answered, “Gee, I don’t know. I parked it at school. I guess it coulda happened there. I’m sorry.”

He pointed his eyes at the driveway and seemed to scrutinize the pebbles for a long time. “JEEZ-zus!” he muttered and shook his head. “The least ya could do is wipe ‘em off.”

As he trudged away, I grabbed the last soft rag and began polishing the hubcaps. Stupid, stupid, stupid, I thought, meditating on my woeful attempt at a cover up. The least I coulda done was wipe ‘em off.

A long time passed before my dad allowed me to use his pride and joy again.