Smash Fiction, Vol. 1 

"SlabSheetrock" (lemahevad) 05/20/2015 at 01:05 • Filed to: None

9

11

It was dad’s last car.

The old man had recently retired from the Company- he and mom married close to thirty-five years; his kids grown and graduated from college; my sisters and I successfully set on our life paths. He had never gotten past middle management at the Company; office politics weren’t his thing, and that’s as big a factor as simple competence in any work environment. “Work to live,” he’d always said. “If you live to work, you’re pissing your life away and devoting it to someone who doesn’t give a rat’s ass about you, your family, or your time.” It’s an excellent outlook on life, but it won’t get you a Vice President title on the office door.

As a family we were comfortable, then, growing up, but certainly not wealthy. I remember watching the upper midwest pass by us through the rear window of such decent but unremarkable cars as Ford LTDs, Chevrolet Celebrities, and later, in the late ‘80s as I went through high school, a couple Toyotas. Never anything flashy, but they got the job done— my sisters and I learned to drive on those Middle America transport appliances, and dad always kept them maintained well. They weren’t much to impress the neighbors; they were his, though, and like him, they were honest, reliable, and solid.

Normally not a materialistic man, he’d long harbored a secret love of Mercedes-Benzes, though, and would point them out to us on our family trips— the Fintail outside the Field Museum in Chicago; the 450SL we spotted at Mt. Rushmore; and once, on a long summer road trip out east, I thought he’d run us off the road craning his neck to see the Sanctum Sanctorum ...a 300SL Gullwing, passing us in the opposite direction on a coastal highway in Maine.

“Someday,” he’d say, as another monument to Teutonic engineering would glide past...and mom would gently sigh patiently, knowing that every man has his fantasy about something unattainable. The Gullwing was a sight to behold, I’d granted him; but in the end, his dreams of someday owning a Mercedes-Benz were his alone, and only just dreams—nothing more.

Then...spring, 1994. Dad had retired from the Company the fall prior; he and mom, empty nesters with nothing but spare time and a growing collection of gardening tools on their hands, were finally enjoying the peace, and growing frustrated with the boredom, of retirement.

“Margery,” dad said quietly one morning over the newspaper and some toast, “I’m going downtown and looking at a car today.”

Mom looked up from her section of the paper. Dad’s car was getting long in the tooth, truth be told; the old Camry had survived a couple teenage drivers, seven midwestern winters, and parking lot mishap (dad’s fault, though he’d never have admitted it,) and was looking a bit worse for wear.
“Don’t buy anything we can’t afford, Bill.”

With a promise that he wouldn’t do anything rash, he was out the door.

He returned that afternoon with The Car. A brand new 1994 Mercedes Benz E320. Mom said she was a little surprised at his purchase, which is the midwestern way of saying, “you absolute dolt. Why have you blown your savings on such an extravagance?” The sub-subtext of, “and what will the neighbors and Pastor Tomlinson think?” didn’t even need to be implied. Dad knew it was there.

Dad paid no mind. His dream had come true.

As much as a no-nonsense, salt-of-the-earth, Lake Woebegone type of man could care for a mechanical object, dad cared for that car. Fastidiously maintained, and equally as often cleaned, he and mom would take it on road trips— my eldest sister had left Minnesota for the allure of the Pacific Northwest, and mom and dad would drive out a couple times a year to see her; I, having taken a position in Des Moines and married soon after, was also the recipient of many a visit from them, particularly after Charlie was born in ‘98...the eldest grandchild from his youngest son. Mom and dad took an attachment to Charlie, the way any grandparents do to their first born grandchild.

Years passed, Charlie grew, and my sisters had children of their own. Dad still had the Benz...though he was driving it less those days. Age catches up with all of us, and it had been nipping at his heels for a while. In the summer of 2008, my mom called.

“Your father is giving up his license. He simply can’t pass the vision test. It’s killing him to not be able to drive, but he’s keeping the car.”

“The Car” always meant the Benz...never the vehicle mom would have been driving at the time.

“What will he do with it?” I asked. I’d never formed any attachment to it; it was dad’s car, after all— I knew he loved it, but it was his fulfilled wish, not mine.

“Well,” replied mom, “He though Charlie should have it for his first car.”

“Mom. Charlie just turned 11. What’s dad going to do, store the car for five years?”

“That’s his plan. If Charlie wants the car when he gets his license, the car is his.”

Surprised by the conversation, but not seriously thinking that this old, pristine Benz would end up in the hands of someone who was still in Cub Scouts, I asked mom to pass the phone to him, thanked him, and didn’t think a whole lot of it afterwards.

Kids have a nasty habit of getting older when you’re not paying attention, and Charlie was no exception. At 16, he passed his driving test the first time out; on the way home, Charlie driving my Mazda, freshly printed license in his pocket, and I in the passenger seat; I got a call from dad.

“So, did Charlie pass his test?”

“Yeah, he did, actually. Did really well.”

“Good. I’ve got something for him up here if he wants it.”

I’d completely forgotten about the conversation I’d had with him and mom five years prior. “Dad,” I replied, “that’s very generous of you, but that is YOUR car. You worked really hard for that. You should keep it.”

The gruff silence on the other end told me all I needed. Three seconds pause, then, “Nonsense. It’s been sitting here waiting for him. Come up and get it this weekend.”

I thanked him, Charlie thanked him...and that weekend we trekked up to my childhood Minnesota home to pick it up. It was as I had last seen it- dad had had it washed, serviced, and ready to go. I noticed, this trip, that he was struggling even more than he had been at Christmas to get around; the fact that he’d had mom bring the car down to the local car wash, and had not washed and waxed it himself, spoke volumes. Charlie, for his part, was over the moon- not only a car, but Pa’s old Benz! It was every middle-class 16 year old’s dream come true.

We stayed there that weekend; on Sunday morning as we began our trek back down to the suburbs of Des Moines, dad admonished Charlie in the driveway:

“You keep her maintained. Keep her clean. Take good care of her- treat her like a lady, and she’ll always bring you home.” I’d swear I saw a tear, but I couldn’t be sure. It’d have been the first one I’d have seen from the man, if it were.

The rest of the spring and the summer passed fairly uneventfully. Charlie kept his end of the bargain; he kept the Benz clean, maintained (I taught him the basics in our driveway) and drove, as far as I could tell, as responsibly as a 16 year old boy could be expected. Every time I called home, though, it seemed that dad sounded...worn. “Weaker” wouldn’t have been a word I’d have used, but the fatigue of a full life lived was settling in.

Mom called on October 10th that year. Dad had passed during the night, the victim, we later found, of a cancer gone undetected. His health had been declining, but one’s never prepared for these things, even when we are.

One week after the funeral. A light rain had settled over Des Moines; autumn had firmly entrenched itself, and with it falling leaves, longer, cooler nights, and the perfect environment for a mourning son to reflect over the life of a father who’d done so much, over his life, for so many- both in and out of our family. As twilight and the rain settled into the city and my thoughts, the phone rang.

Charlie, breathing heavily.

“Dad,” he said, almost sobbing, “Dad, I just got hit. I was going through a green light and the other guy flew the red, and...”

I snapped out of my own world and sat upright.

“Whoa, slow down. Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

“We’re all fine, I think. Peyton, James, and Ian were in the car, too. We’re not hurt. Pa’s car, though...”
Even after he’d gotten the title, it was still Pa’s car. I could tell he was getting choked up.

“We can worry about the car later. Where are you? Have you called the other boys’ parents?”

“We’re at the corner of Merle Hay and Hickman. The other guys called their parents. Dad...the car!”

“Forget the car. I’ll be right there.”

Ten minutes later, police lights in the rain at night. An ambulance for the driver who’d run the red- fortunately, not badly injured himself- and four teenage kids in the rain, looking shaken under the street lights, but safe. I hugged Charlie close. For once, the normal teenage embarrassment didn’t kick in, and he hugged me back. The other parents were there, looking equally relieved at their sons’ good fortune.

I didn’t think to even look at the car then. I spoke to the officer on the scene, found where they’d be towing the car, conversed briefly with the other parents, and drove Charlie home.

The next morning, we headed to the towing yard. Charlie’s school books, baseball gear, and few other items were in the trunk.

Charlie looked despondent. I knew he was upset not because he’d wrecked a car; he was upset because he’d wrecked Pa’s car. He’d destroyed Pa’s dream.

I leaned up against the wreck, and motioned for Charlie to do the same.

“Pa knew what he was doing when he gave you this car. Last night could have been so, so much worse. But you know what?”

Charlie couldn’t look up from his shoes. “What?”

“Pa brought you home.”

My citroen won't start > SlabSheetrock 05/20/2015 at 01:13

3

That was incredibly well written and I’m misty eyed now.

R Saldana [|Oo|======|oO|] - BTC/ETH/LTC Prophet > SlabSheetrock 05/20/2015 at 01:29

2

Oh my feels. I feel like someone is using hand sanitizer, cutting onions and dusting a hoarders house up in this beece.

Talisman > SlabSheetrock 05/20/2015 at 01:37

0

Old Mercedes Benz’s are built like bank vaults. Extremely well-crafted and moving. Thank you for sharing your story.

Eggplant > SlabSheetrock 05/20/2015 at 03:02

1

About half way through, I realized that I was reading it in Stuart Mclean’s voice. Someone needs to get him to record this.

mazda616 > SlabSheetrock 05/20/2015 at 07:57

1

What an awesome piece. Very well written and yes, I think I have something in my eye...

GTI Sprinks > SlabSheetrock 05/20/2015 at 08:25

1

That was perfect. Thanks. Hope it moves everyone else to tears as well.

GTCL > SlabSheetrock 05/20/2015 at 08:59

0

Great story. Thanks for sharing it. Amazing how so many small moments in life are intertwined.

SlabSheetrock > SlabSheetrock 05/20/2015 at 09:39

0

Thanks for the feedback, everyone! It’s been about 20 years since I dusted off the ol’ creative writing skills. I’ll be doing more and posting in the future.

Lwyrup > SlabSheetrock 05/20/2015 at 12:54

0

Beautiful story. Awesome choice by your Dad, the W124 truly represented Mercedes at its finest.

SlabSheetrock > SlabSheetrock 05/20/2015 at 12:59

0

...and just to be clear, if the “Fiction” portion of the title didn’t tip you off: this is a short story, nothing more. I got bored last night and busted this out so I wouldn’t waste an evening playing Civ 5.

SlabSheetrock > Lwyrup 05/20/2015 at 13:02

0

I appreciate that, but this is a short story I wrote last night, not an autobiography in any way...hence the title of the post. Thanks for the positive feedback though!