Those of you that remember my Christmas day post will recognize this as a continuation of a trio of pieces about my dad and his driving
1972 Pontiac Catalina
January, 1975
It was butt-ass cold outside—colder than usual for the time of year. I hated the cold almost as much as I hated the months between Christmas and Valentine’s Day. Sitting on the hassock in front of the big picture window I looked out at the hard, cold snow in our front yard. It was getting close to dinner time. The sun was long gone. I squinted and split the light from the streetlamp into a dozen multi-colored streaks. The hard-packed snow glistened, and little powdery wisps snaked their way down the front walk out to the street.
“Grantsy, call your father. Supper is almost ready and he has to pick up Honey at the groomer before 7:00,” my mom called from the kitchen.
“Mom,” I whined. “I don’t know why you don’t just let me go. I’m old enough to drive myself, you know.” I wasn’t.
“Stop it, honey. Just call your father,” she whined back. “He’s probably in the bar at the Park Café, he had to drop off the payroll today.”
I hated the fact that, somehow, the duty of calling the bar and getting my dad to come home had fallen to me. Early-shift bartenders all over town knew my voice. They’d just hand the phone over to my dad without ceremony; all of them except Gussie Lankeit at the Park Cafe. She would wait, come back to the phone, and lie to me. Dad would usually show up at home a few minutes later.
I sighed, walk across the living room into the kitchen and dialed the Park Café.
“Park bar,” Gussie answered. I could hear the Virginia Slim dangling out the side of her mouth.
“Is Bob Byington there?” I asked. “Just a minute,” she coughed.
She dropped the receiver hard onto the bar. “Robert!” I heard Gussie yell, “The kid’s on the phone again.”
The most embarrassing part of this whole nightmare was listening to the muffled sound of my father telling Gussie to lie to me. Well, it was actually a tossup between that and the sounds of the ribbing my dad got from the other men at the bar. Maybe Gussie did this to shame me, somehow engaging me in a battle of wills. Either way, it stunk. It stunk out loud.
“Nope. Not here today,” Gussie lied and hung up.
“He’s on his way,” I said to Mom.
“Does he know to pick up the dog?”
“No, Gussie wouldn’t let me talk to him. You know how she is,” I said.
“Well darn it. You’re going to have to go out there and wait for him then. Save him the walk up to the house.”
“Or you could go get the dog,” I said.
“I can’t, honey. My check will bounce,” Mom said.
A moment passed between us. My gaze travelled across the kitchen ceiling before landing on hers. We’d come to this standoff before. I sighed again, turned and walked to the front closet to suit up.
“I can’t wait,” I told her. “I just can’t wait to grow up and get the hell out of this house.”
A few minutes later, as our big blue Catalina skidded around the corner of Tamarack and Ogden, I stood in the street and waved my arms like I worked at an airport.
My father had a problem with acceleration. He was one of those drivers that tended to push the gas pedal to the floor, then coast, then push, then coast. I never asked why he drove like that, but given his conservative nature, I thought he was trying to avoid using the power brakes. A lumbering man in general, his feet were particularly heavy on the gas pedal. His motor control was completely fouled up because of a mysterious WWII Jeep accident, so riding with him was always a thrill and a half—especially when he’d had a few. The Catalina coasted most of the way down the block, then slid to a stop in the middle of the icy street, only a few feet from my knees.
A burst of hot, sticky air hit my face when I slide into the passenger side of the front seat. It smelled like Ballantines and Pall Malls. The windows were mostly defrosted, but my dad didn’t know how to operate the heater, so hot air was being forced at my face, rather than my feet.
“What’s the problem?” he asked.
“We got to go get Honey Yvette at Dorothy Johnson’s house up on Haggin Road,” I said.
“Ah. The Killer get a hair cut?”
Dad called our toy poodle “Killer” because she was fierce to anyone who came to the front door. She barked when someone knocked, but she usually made friends right away. The only people she was absolutely ruthless with were mailmen, but I think that’s just because our mailman hated dogs. Dad had a habit of saying “Kill! Kill!” whenever the front door was open and the screen door was the only thing that separated the mailman from ferocious Honey Yvette.
Dad gunned the engine, and we slid down Ogden Street. The inside of the Catalina was roomy, but I could hear the studs in the snow tires trying hard to catch some traction. The streets were completely frozen and the tires easily spun out.
“I called the Park Café looking for you,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“Gussie said you weren’t there.”
“Of course I was there … earlier. Payroll today.” He hardly looked at me when he spoke. This conversation was no different. He just stared straight ahead. We coasted to the corner of Ogden and Balsam. He gunned the engine, cranked the steering wheel to the right and the car fishtailed onto Balsam Street. The second time, the car lurched toward the highway a block away. I glanced up to make sure we weren’t going to get in an accident if he didn’t get to the brake in time. A light snow began to fall.
I flipped the heat from ‘defrost’ to ‘floor’ and wiggled my toes inside my shoes. I didn’t bother to put my boots on, because I was only going to be running from the house to the car. Even in that short time I’d lost all sensation in my toes.
“I’m going to need a twenty,” I said.
“Holy oh God!” he said. As he reached into his hip pocket for his wallet, his foot slipped onto the gas pedal, causing the car to lurch unintentionally. Caught off guard, I slammed backward into the seat.
“Whoopsy daisy! Sorry about that chief,” he said. He flopped his wallet up onto the dashboard. I whipped off my mittens and pulled out a wad of bills.
My father was tight as a tick with money, but you’d never know it to look at his wallet. All totaled, there was $264 in cash and several checks written to his business. There was also dozens of little slips of paper with miscellaneous facts and figures scrawled on them in pencil—people’s birthdays, social security numbers, lock combinations. “You’re taking too long with my money,” he said. I quickly peeled a twenty out of the wad. Before I put the money back, I sorted it by value and faced all the heads of the presidents the same way, something no one would do if they wanted to avoid getting caught stealing.
“I think it’s fourteen dollars for the haircut and we usually tip,” I said.
Dad cranked the wheel to the left, floored the gas pedal, and the car made a complete 360, stopping in the middle of Haggin Road.
“Holy shit!” I shouted.
“Good God! It’s really icy up here,” Dad said. I could tell he was out of breath.
He had a point. Haggin Road is at the base of a foothill to Mt. Haggin. When the weather hovers below and above freezing, the runoff stays on the street and freezes. Under about seven inches of rock-solid ice is a well-worn road, constantly in need of repair due to the extreme changes in temperature. Dad goosed the engine and the car turned left 90 degrees.
When we slid to a stop in front of the Johnson house, I was on the high side of the road. Because Haggin Road was tilted at a steep angle, I pushed the heavy car door uphill to open it.
“Ask for a five in change,” Dad said. I pulled myself out of the car and tested my footing. “And be careful out there. It’s slicker than snot!”
He was right about that. I should have worn boots. As I pawed my way along the car, I used everything I could to stay upright, including the passenger door handle, then the right front fender, then the front bumper. The snow fell through the beams of the headlights as I slid, more than walked, to the curb.
My family had Honey longer than I’d been alive. Although she wasn’t my dog, she and I got along better than anyone else in the house. I liked the way Dorothy cut her hair, because Honey didn’t look like a poodle, except for the bows braided into the coat above her ears. Fresh from grooming, you’d never guess Honey was a killer toy poodle. Very much her own dog, Honey pretty much did what she wanted to. She cuddled with me most of the time, and stood by my bed in the morning. I was the one who let her out, fed her dinner and gave her a daily dosage of heart medication.
“Hey there, Dorothy,” I said when she came to the door.
“Get in here,” she said. “Looks like it’s starting to come down a little heavier than before.”
Honey came over and sniffed my shoes. I reached down and patted her head.
“She looks great,” I said to Dorothy. “You look great,” I said to Honey. Both seemed pleased to hear it.
“That’ll be fourteen,” Dorothy said. I gave her the twenty and she looked at me.
“Keep the change,” I said.
“Thank you, honey.”
“You talkin’ to me, or the dog?” I asked. “It’s an old family joke,” I said. Dorothy smiled and held open the door as I scooped up Honey.
“Be careful on your way back to the car now. That damn road is so icy this time of year.”
“I know! We already did a donut at the corner,” I said.
Outside on Dorothy’s porch, I tucked Honey under my arm and pulled a five out of my own wallet. Normally, I’d let Honey walk herself to the car, but it was too cold to put her down.
Climbing up hill on a solid sheet of ice with a dog tucked under your arm and a five dollar bill clenched in your fist isn’t easy. Especially in your school shoes. Dad watched me pick my way back through the snow drifts. At the edge of the street I decided my chances for traction were better if I went around the back of the car.
I steadied myself on the trunk of the Catalina and part pulled, part tip-toed up to the high side. A thick cloud of exhaust hung around the bottom of the car, making it look like the Catalina was floating on a misty, shining lake. When I shifted the dog and the cash from my right hand to my left, something went terribly wrong. I slipped. I righted myself. I overcorrected. In desperation, I threw Honey up in the air, as my legs slid completely under the car. The last thing I saw before slamming my head on the ice was Honey Yvette’s legs spinning out of control, dog-paddling upwards through the falling snow.
Wham! I was down. As familiar as the feeling was, it’s always a surprise to hit solid ground. A kind of huff escaped from my lungs upon impact.
Honey landed just next to my right ear.
Immediately she started to squeal. Half-crying, half-barking, her toenails clicked and scratched at the ice. I tried to pull myself out from under the car, but the more I struggled the further under I managed to slide.
In my left ear, I heard the sound of the snow tires spinning out of control. He hasn’t taken the car out of gear! I thought, and he must be mistaking the gas for the brake. The treads spun ferociously. For a split second, I thought about Batman. He was always in a similar predicament about 25 minutes into an episode. I thought to myself, but he always gets out alive.
I pounded on the car and hooted, “I’m under the car! I’m under the car! I’m under the fucking car!”
The tires slowed to a normal spin, as the rear of the car slid ever-so-slightly downhill. I saw my father’s feet land on the ice just a few inches from mine.
“Killer? Big G? Where is everybody?” He obviously had no idea what the hell was happening.
“Get back in the car and put it in park!” I yelled.
“Wha … ?”
“I’m under the fucking car. And it’s still in gear!” I reasoned.
“Christ!” The feet disappeared back into the car.
The tires stopped. The engine slowed. Honey started licking my cheeks.
Back in the car, I took a quick assessment of everything that could possibly be wrong with Honey. Aside from a light dusting of snow and a misplaced blue ribbon, everything seemed fine. She didn’t have any tender spots or obvious broken bones. Although I felt bad about tossing her up in the air, I thought she got the better part of the bargain. My butt hurt. It was the first thing to hit, and it definitely slid the most during the struggle. Other than that, I had cracked my elbow pretty hard. It smarted when I pulled the door closed.
Calm now, the three of us stared out into the snow falling through the headlights. Dad opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. My feet were frozen.
“Here’s your change,” I said. I smoothed the five dollar bill out on the dashboard. After a minute or two, Dad put the car in gear and gunned the engine.
“Coulda killed me,” I said to no one in particular.
