c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(3-25)
By the early months of 1987, I had reached a tipping point in my personal journey toward maturity. For the first time, I had a partner who was smart and stable. I had a job that fulfilled the needs associated with living independently. I was in the final year of paying off my car loan, a major expense which I wanted to eliminate. And I felt confident in staying on track. Something that had eluded me while living in New York. But with the seasonal thaw taking hold, and our rural bungalow emerging from heaping mounds of snow, I realized that the Chevette would not be a willing participant in this metamorphosis toward adulthood.
Friends observed that my GM hatchback looked like something out of a Flintstones cartoon. Its floor had disintegrated to the point that mud and muck were splashing inside, as I drove to work. The vehicle was now a rattlebox of sorts, worn and groaning with voices of mechanical fatigue. Eventually, a member of my social circle who performed repair work at a dealership, declared that I should be concerned about the transmission mounts, underneath. He did a brief inspection and saw that rust had overrun the structural integrity of my bland beast.
With no extra money on hand, I had few options to fix this malady. So, in desperation, I bought a length of heavy chain from a store in Chardon. I ran this through holes in the floor, cinched it tight to the center tunnel, and used a padlock to secure the improvised support. It worked well enough, but was a bit too obvious. I decided to place shop rags over the silver links, as a measure of camouflage. In case I might be stopped by police at some point, while rolling around our county.
With warmer weather reigniting my wanderlust, I began to ponder making another trip to the Empire State. My younger brother also had forgotten companions in the Finger Lakes Region, so he agreed to share expenses, and go along. But I hadn’t thought too much about his impressive, physical girth. A size that easily doubled my own weight. When he plopped in the passenger seat, and we reached Interstate 90, two things immediately became apparent. The first was that my beige bomb lacked enough power to pull our combined heft up to highways speeds in a timely manner. The second was that when he adjusted his sitting position for comfort, my minimalist transport would attempt to change lanes. I had to pay strict attention to our position, at every moment. And my foot stayed stiff on the accelerator pedal.
I dropped him off in Ithaca, and then circled back toward Corning. There, Paul & Mollie Race were waiting, with guitars, recording equipment, and lots of contraband substances. As usual, I stayed refreshed with native brews such as Utica Club. Plus, a small flask of bourbon. But I had no interest in becoming completely obliterated.
Paul voiced his displeasure over this shy stance of mine, as we tuned up the instruments.
“What the hell, man? You been in Ohio for a few months and all of a sudden get antsy about having a good time? What happened to the dude I remember passing out in my hallway, after a big spliff of Mary Jane? I think you need to relax a little bit! C’mon and get high, brother!”
I was no longer the rowdy, capricious teenager he remembered. My first wife had urged me to accept a perspective on living that was mindful of responsibilities. I did not quite understand this change completely, but embraced it as being necessary. Much like driving my boxy, four-door conveyance, from Detroit. Gone were the days of staying under a bridge, and gnawing on cold pizza when my belly went empty. I did not want to slide backwards into poverty, homelessness, and ruin. Or have to wash my few clothes in a public sink, while hopping around barefoot, and nearly naked.
“Hey friend, it’s a new chapter now. I turned the page, okay? Nobody could stand me anymore, and I couldn’t tolerate myself. You want that kid back again? I think not!”
By that point, my hippie mentor was sweaty, shaggy, and stoned. He shrugged and started riffing on a Blues chord progression. Then crooned a musical tale that reddened my face.
“Rod cleaned up his act, what the fuck is up with that? Oh, I used to know that guy, but I think he must’ve died! ‘Cause now he’s playing Mr. Clean, piss beer, and Jim Beam. That shitshow makes me sad, he was the best friend I ever had. So long, buddy boy, I’ll see you the next time you’re unemployed...”
His sarcasm was a scorching rebuke that I could not forget. Yet as I picked up my brother when the weekend was over, other concerns soon occupied my thoughts. We had only gone a few miles west, along the Southern Tier Expressway, when I noted that the Chevette was particularly lethargic. It struggled to hold road speed for any length of time. Then, it began to surge and cough while in motion.
We made several stops along the way. My brother expressed his determination to diagnose the issue, and we paused at a Kmart location, and later, an auto parts depot. Each time he fiddled under the hood, replaced bits and pieces, and tried to make an educated guess about the cause of our delay. But nothing seemed to help. By the time we reached Salamanca, my car was loafing with a labored chuffing of black exhaust. After getting grub and coffee, we returned to the road and puttered along slowly. I could feel that the undersized motor had suffered some kind of internal injury. Yet the need to get home took precedence. We had to reach our destination, intact. Failing that would mean being stranded in unfamiliar territory. Not an experience that either of us wanted to embrace.
When we reached the on-ramp for our last leg of the journey, my Shove-It balked at rolling up this long incline. I had my right foot on the floor, and the transmission in second or third gear. But our forward motion did not increase greatly. I could see an 18-wheel rig growing larger in my rearview mirror, a sight that quickly had me holding my breath. With no avenue for escape, I grabbed the steering wheel tightly, and braced myself for impact. The professional driver sailed past on my right flank, with inches of clearance to spare. Air displaced by his tractor-trailer combination shook my economy sedan as if it were a toy.
My sibling actually appeared to be unsure if we would survive. I had never seen him show fear before.
“SHIT BRO, THAT WAS FUCKING CLOSE!”
I had become sick at my stomach by the time we reached Munson Township, and Wearsch Road. My GM mule was spent. It barely had enough fortitude to bounce over the gravel trail that led to my house. Once in the yard, it stalled. That was the end of our adventure. I would never take the car on a vacation jaunt, again.
Later, I discovered that the low-buck Chevrolet had a cracked piston. Our ride home apparently occurred with only three cylinders operating. My daily driver was now fit for nothing more than being towed to a scrapyard. It had clocked up 77,640 miles of service. Not nearly the amount I had hoped for, when signing loan paperwork, with Bank One.
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