c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(3-25)
Buying the Ford Econoline van in Pennsylvania proved to be easier than I expected. A task accomplished with little planning or forethought. But this acquired relic had officially run through 200,000 miles on the road, already. There were minor issues that needed to be addressed before I could depend on it for daily service. This process began immediately, after returning to my home base in Ohio.
Before long, I discovered that the back-up lights did not work. This flaw was addressed by wiring a toggle switch on the dash, and activating them manually when needed. The heater core was apparently shot, and I got little warmth as a seasonal chill arrived. This was not so difficult to handle, but it meant that my defroster did not function. I had gotten used to driving with an ice scraper in one hand, while at the wheel of my 1973 VW Beetle. So, that habit returned. There was no spare tire, and the shifter would balk if moved too quickly. When it stuck between gears, I had to lie under the big bus, and pull on its transmission linkage to accomplish a reset. Additionally, the front suspension needed lubrication at its grease points, and a tack weld for the steering box. None of these woes were expensive to erase. Yet it meant needing a ride to my jobsite, on a weekday, when no other form of transportation was available.
Betty, with a positive tone and realist outlook that was characteristic of her mature personality, observed that I ought to take one more trip in my Chevette. She wrinkled her pointy nose, and waited for my response, after saying this out loud.
“You haven’t driven it since coming back from New York. How far is it to your supermarket, three or four miles, maybe? Being so close, you could ride a bicycle, if we had one. It’s worth the chance not to lose a work shift, right? See if that poor piece of junk will start!”
My body sagged when trudging through fallen leaves, across our side yard. The junk hatchback looked undeniably sad, sitting in a ring of tall grass. It was an orphan now, unloved and useless except for shielding a large bag of Gravy Train Dog Chow, from bursts of inclement weather.
After climbing inside, I pumped the gas pedal a few times, and twisted its ignition key. The motor huffed smoke and rattled. Another attempt shook the whole rig like a washer out of balance. Then, it actually started running. I was able to coax it to maintain a rough idle, and then shifted into first gear. The rear wheels spun out a stream of mud and weeds. With a brief burst of forward motion as my reward for being persistent.
“I don’t believe it! This hunk of tin might actually make it to Chardon!!”
I decided that my spouse-to-be was correct. Even if the GM mule happened to disintegrate somewhere between our homestead and the grocery emporium, I wouldn’t have far to walk. I reckoned it would soon be carried away by a tow truck, no matter what happened. Therefore, taking a chance on getting to my store seemed worthwhile. Upon gathering tools in case I got stranded, and finding my wallet, I set out on this risky jaunt. Something done with a prayer on my lips, and a whisper of fear in my heart.
The injured Chevrolet could only manage about 35 mph, even with its accelerator pegged. But most of the drive was through rural neighborhoods with little traffic. The car coughed and sputtered, and rattled while moving. I kept both hands on the wheel. An odor of motor oil and fuel wafted into the cabin, as I pressed onward. The vehicle felt limp, and lifeless. But kept going in a straight line.
When I arrived at my Bi-Rite food depot, there were cheers from members of the crew, standing outside. No one could believe that I had taken the beige beast out for a final cruise. A long-haired veteran named Scott, who was a fan of Heavy Metal and functioned as a rodeo clown for the team, clapped and whistled while grinning with neglected, yellow teeth.
“DAMNNNN! YOU CAME HERE IN THAT THING, AGAIN? SHITTTT! GOOD CHOICE, MAN! WHEN IT FALLS APART, YOU’LL PROBABLY GET CRUSHED LIKE A BAG OF SNYDER’S BBQ POTATO CHIPS! OZZY OSBOURNE WOULD BE PROUD! OR RONNIE JAMES DIO! HORNS UP, RODSTER! HORNS UP! WOOOOO!”
I shrugged sheepishly as he cackled about my predicament. His own ride was a 1970’s Thunderbird, which had suffered a familiar plague of rust to its front clip. The bumper had fallen off, leaving only scarred bits of the subframe visible. Whatever color it had been originally was now faded into a pale hue between maroon and brown.
In personal terms, I lusted after a new Monte Carlo, Olds Cutlass, or Chrysler Cordoba. Something with a V-8 under the hood, and more creature comforts, inside. Yet for the moment, I would be stuck piloting my living-room-on-wheels. That is, if I could drive home again, after finishing my shelf-stocking duties.
When I rolled into a parking space west of the building, my Shove-It came to rest at an angle pitched to one side. Some of the tires were going flat. Black soot stained its hindquarters. I didn’t bother locking the driver’s door, because having it stolen would’ve been a blessing. A merciful act from the automotive gods of Detroit.
I made a silent petition to heaven as the T-car stalled.
“Thank you, Jesus! Thank you, Lord!”
I had suffered enough embarrassment over three years of being banished to the hellscape of Chevette ownership. My price of penance had been paid.
The green, Ford van was repaired and ready in only one day. Being so huge and ugly earned it a comic nickname of Godzilla from friends and family members. A label that was both amusing and appropriate. I found a toy representation of that notable movie monster at Fisher’s Big Wheel, and put it on the dashboard for good luck.
The undersized Chevy was now ready to be scrapped. I would not drive it again.
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