c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(2-25)
Coming back from New York was always like waking after a wild weekend of abandon, with a hangover pounding between my temples. Subconsciously, I must have imagined that by visiting frequently enough to stay connected with old friends and habits, my lost routine might return. But it never happened. Instead, each visit only sharpened my focus on the paradigm shift that had occurred. Those bygone days of begging and busking for spare change, while composing poems and wandering on the street, were gone. I wasn’t slick enough to be a hustler. Not charming enough, or personable enough. My fate had already been scribbled in chalk, on the concrete. And blurred like the leftover outline of a crime scene, fading in the rain. To survive, I had to go home again. Not just in geographical terms, but also, in spirit.
The Chevette made it all possible.
Reaching Exit 200, off of Interstate 90, felt like a brace of cold water splashing over my cheeks. On a familiar background of green, there was an indicator for Ohio Route 44, and the destinations of Chardon and Painesville, listed below. I needed to refuel my little beast on the way through town, and perhaps hit a car wash, but pangs of hunger made me impatient. I arrived at our yellow house around three o’clock. Breakfast and lunch had already come and gone, and my mother was busy organizing the cupboards. But she reheated a plate of sausage gravy and homemade biscuits, while I sat at the dinner table. Oddly, she had a scarf tied around her permanent wave, patterned in paisley. Something that made me suspect she must have needed to go outside for a moment. Her apron was dusty with all-purpose flour. She did not pry too intently into what I had been doing. Yet maternally, offered a note of concern over my absence, which spanned several days in a row.
“You didn’t call off from the department store, I hope? They must depend on you, after all!”
I nodded politely, to avoid appearing defiant.
“No worries, it was on the schedule. I worked overtime last week. We had to strip and wax the floors, ahead of a big ad rolling out next month. That blew the budget for my boss. He was crabby about crunching the numbers. They hound him from the company offices, apparently...”
My father had been in his office next door, at the Church of Christ sanctuary. But entered through our kitchen with his Pyrex coffee mug, hoping for a refill. He wore the same style of striped shirt and polyester slacks that I remembered, when leaving on my eastern excursion.
“Rodney! I wanted to talk about your hoss. There was no trouble getting to see your friends, I am guessing? Nothing broke, no parts fell off, none of the tires went flat?”
I laughed with a mouthful of the hillbilly meal.
“No, the thing ran great. I must have averaged 40 mpg on the highway, that’s better than my ratty VW could manage. It let me afford to make the trip without going completely broke. I got home with a few bucks left in my wallet...”
He was pleased at this report. It made him rock on his heels and glow with pride at my ownership of a valued asset.
“Okay then, here’s what I’ve got in mind. Your mom needs to visit her oldest sister in Parkersburg, West Virginia. She and your uncle are getting quite old now, their health is not so good. I think paying a call on them would lift her up, emotionally. But taking our car would be iffy at best. Better to make the run in something more common, something newer. Your Chevy hatchback would be perfect, I think!”
In those days, my genetic sire drove a sleek, green, Peugeot 604. A motorized conveyance largely unknown in the United States. He had grown up in a Ford family, but also was attracted to quirky, foreign makes of all sorts. This meant that during my childhood years, we had vehicles from Saab, Simca, Renault, and other manufacturers, filling the family driveway.
I was somewhat shocked that he would allow me to drive the French bomber. It struck me as a sort of Gallic BMW, with a 2.7 liter, V-6 motor, four-speed manual transmission, Blaupunkt 8-track stereo, and a leather interior.
“You’d trade the Peugeot for my Chevette? Really?”
The veteran minister and mechanic was sober in his assessment of this perplexing situation.
“You’ve got the newest ride in our household. I’d hate to get stranded in Mountaineer country with something out of the ordinary. It just makes sense. I had hoped you would agree.”
I was eager to pilot his luxury boat. It seemed like a bargain I would be foolish to refuse.
“Of course! Of course! Anything to help you both. I owe you a debt that can never be repaid...”
When I showed up at Fisher’s Big Wheel with the sharp, lion-crested sedan, eyes popped and heads turned. My coworkers were puzzled and incredulous.
“WHAT THE HELL IS THAT? A PEPÉ LE PEW GOAT?”
I had been warned that the car suffered from carburetor woes, when getting started. Dad used a trick of propping the butterfly valve open with a folded index card, so it could breathe properly. And indeed, as I was finished with my work shift, the 604’s fuel system refused to ignite. I raised the flat, expansive hood, placed a plain, paper square in its slot, and twisted the key.
A roar of internal combustion echoed across our parking lot. Then, WMMS-FM boomed from the sound system.
The spacious, cowhide seats had me sliding around while driving home. I felt rich at the wheel, peering over its long, squarish hood. The exhaust growled with European confidence. I almost wished that my GM econobox would disappear, somewhere in the hills. Though I hoped not to lose my parents as a result.
This exchange only lasted for a few days. Yet it made me appreciate the thrifty nature of my own daily driver. The Chevette served just as well to get me from one place to another, but did it at a fraction of the cost. Something that mattered greatly, as I was still stuck earning the minimum wage for my humble position.
Still, I enjoyed riding high like Emperor Napoleon, even if only for a moment.
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