The throaty, robust rumble of internal combustion was this young man’s siren’s song, swapping mermaid’s tail or angel chorus for heavy metal’s roar. Junior’d been itching for his first solo on the open road since he was allowed to steer the mechanical monster from the booster seat of Pop’s lap (pater on the pedals).
My childhood’s Sunday mornings were routine: cruise to town, coin-op car wash, breakfast at Huddle House, then off to church. In that order. Dad would always assist me in aiming the sprayer. It was a big job for a little man—rinsing the foam from the hood, bumpers, and fenders—all the parts I could reach. If I wasn’t thorough, the soap could dry and damage the finish. Once clean, the tick of the cooling engine counterpointed the drip of water into the drainage grate below; chamois cloth retrieved from the back seat, flapped soundly, sending fuzz flying, then applied with the care of nurse swaddling newborn.
Each pass of the spongy cloth would whittle away at the wetness that shrouded all that steel, exposing more of that sleek paint job that just BEGGED for you to slide an entire hand—flat palm and ALL five fingers—down its side, licking your lips at the tender texture of all that metallic smoothness; though you wouldn’t dare, as marring that Turtle Wax Sunday shine would rain down hellfire and brimstone upon the perpetrator.
My smile widened with the smooth friction of the turn of the ignition, the struggle of horses under the hood. You could hear the protest of the leather seats in their crack and squeak as we settled in for the rest of our errands: adjusting mirrors and taking inventory of miscellaneous sundries in the console—an earpiece of a cheap pair of five-and-dime shades; around 74 cents in Coke-soaked spare change—NEVER a quarter in the bunch; the paper jacket of my Survivor cassette (the first one I ever owned, begged off Pop’s BMG subscription) enjoyed so often I knew exactly when to expect the warp in the tape, and would bend my pitch to match.
The Huddle House we would frequent was next door to the U-Suds-It. It took more time to drive than walk, but there were other congregation members looking to slick their flivvers on the way to the Lord’s house—couldn’t homestead in the washer bays. Pop would drive slowly to avoid smashing too many bugs en route, then we’d saddle up to the formica countertops for a syrup-smothered pecan waffle or an order of biscuits ’n gravy (though Momma’s was always better). And no matter how quick the service or how fast you ate, you could never escape the cigarette stink that soaked into every stitch. <sigh> Days gone by.
Some of the fondest memories I have with my dad include the smell of exhaust and the squeal of tires. He’s traded those discount sunglasses for bifocals and sawmill gravy isn’t supposed to be on EITHER of our menus that often anymore. But the bond we share over a set of keys and the view of the world through a windshield is something I’ll always hold dear.