’bout champs AND bi sexuals?!” yelled Grandaddy right back across the field. “Shit, I ain’t even got enough time in my day to be heterosexual with m’woman, how the hell them poofters got time in they day t’be bi sexual? They must get nothin’ done.”
“Done! I’ll tell you what they get done. They get…”
“Lew! Your balls are hangin’ out!” Dad interrupted deliberately to shut down their conversation in front of me.
“Look to the sky, fellers! I’m tellin you, he’s gonna pee on us!” Lew yelled back.
I straddled the Gran Torino’s center console. Dad had let me drive ever since I could see over the dash. He got in beside me, ordering eyes on the road as I jabbed the radio button.
“Fly the airplane, don’t let it fly you,” said Dad sternly.
We got out on the road to home, but my dad always slowed down a bit when I steered, so faster drivers were held up impatiently behind me.
“Hey, Dad, what’s chasin’ tail?”
“Oh, it’s just Lew’s way of sayin’ chasing girls.”
“Free Bird” came on the radio just as Dad yelled out the window at a red Firebird blazing past us in the parking lane, right up close to the Gran Torino’s passenger door. “Goddamn drug uh-dikt, Kevin!” When Dad swore, it was like my Grandaddy. They called it taking a PE, Profanity Exemption—a well-placed and excusable piece of profanity used to achieve what no other nonprofane word could. Lightning struck nearby, accompanied by an instantaneous thunderclap. The flash was so severe that Kevin’s bright red Firebird paled to a soft pink, and a slash of deep blue paint became visible across the left rear bumper.
“Dad, how come Mr. Hoagie wears his army medals to practice, and Grandaddy and you don’t wear your medals?”
“I guess it reminds Lew he done something with his life. He’s a war hero for sure, son, and he’s a fine football coach. But your Grandaddy and I, we like to focus on making more new great things, not live in the past like Lew, restin’ on his mighty impressive laurels.” Dad got quiet. Steam came off the hood when bloated Texas raindrops hit the car, and water spewed down the windshield as Dad told me to keep my eyes on the goddamn road or he’d take the wheel.
* * *
“Dad, how do Mr. Hoagie’s balls know when it’s gonna rain?”
“Not at the table, son,” said Dad, noticing Mom’s look of mock horror as she sat down with us at our little white kitchen table.
I devoured my mom’s charred macaroni and cheese, especially after practice. I didn’t know any better and she’s from Louisiana, so Cajun was her excuse. I shoveled mouthfuls, and Dad pretended to take bites of his as he ambled through the kitchen door into the garage with the excuse that he had to shut the garage door, only to leave his bowl hidden under the back bumper of his ’58 British racing green MGA.
“Genie, that was delicious, darlin’. Mic, get out here!” called Dad. My eyes adjusted to the dark garage, and I stretched deep into the foot well to reach the pedals. “Now, rev it, Mic!”
Looking so pretty, Mom watched Dad under the hood tinkering with his race car engine, so she didn’t notice Steve McQueen’s Velveeta mustache or Dad’s empty bowl. As Dad was leaning under the hood, Steve’s ears perked up and he came over to whine at me. Dogs hear shit. Moments later, Mom, Dad, and I heard it, too. Tires screeched as the garage door imploded at us, splintering its center, crumpling in about a foot and a half with a sound like a shotgun blast.
“What the goddamn…?” Dad’s head popped out from under the hood.
With the garage door now inoperable, Mom, Steve McQueen, and I followed Dad as he raged back through the kitchen and out the front door to the driveway to find a mop of blond hair intertwined with a sheaf of feathered brown inside a red Firebird now coupled intimately with our garage door. Oblivious, Kevin and Lilyth were making out in the front seat of Kevin’s
“Done! I’ll tell you what they get done. They get…”
“Lew! Your balls are hangin’ out!” Dad interrupted deliberately to shut down their conversation in front of me.
“Look to the sky, fellers! I’m tellin you, he’s gonna pee on us!” Lew yelled back.
I straddled the Gran Torino’s center console. Dad had let me drive ever since I could see over the dash. He got in beside me, ordering eyes on the road as I jabbed the radio button.
“Fly the airplane, don’t let it fly you,” said Dad sternly.
We got out on the road to home, but my dad always slowed down a bit when I steered, so faster drivers were held up impatiently behind me.
“Hey, Dad, what’s chasin’ tail?”
“Oh, it’s just Lew’s way of sayin’ chasing girls.”
“Free Bird” came on the radio just as Dad yelled out the window at a red Firebird blazing past us in the parking lane, right up close to the Gran Torino’s passenger door. “Goddamn drug uh-dikt, Kevin!” When Dad swore, it was like my Grandaddy. They called it taking a PE, Profanity Exemption—a well-placed and excusable piece of profanity used to achieve what no other nonprofane word could. Lightning struck nearby, accompanied by an instantaneous thunderclap. The flash was so severe that Kevin’s bright red Firebird paled to a soft pink, and a slash of deep blue paint became visible across the left rear bumper.
“Dad, how come Mr. Hoagie wears his army medals to practice, and Grandaddy and you don’t wear your medals?”
“I guess it reminds Lew he done something with his life. He’s a war hero for sure, son, and he’s a fine football coach. But your Grandaddy and I, we like to focus on making more new great things, not live in the past like Lew, restin’ on his mighty impressive laurels.” Dad got quiet. Steam came off the hood when bloated Texas raindrops hit the car, and water spewed down the windshield as Dad told me to keep my eyes on the goddamn road or he’d take the wheel.
* * *
“Dad, how do Mr. Hoagie’s balls know when it’s gonna rain?”
“Not at the table, son,” said Dad, noticing Mom’s look of mock horror as she sat down with us at our little white kitchen table.
I devoured my mom’s charred macaroni and cheese, especially after practice. I didn’t know any better and she’s from Louisiana, so Cajun was her excuse. I shoveled mouthfuls, and Dad pretended to take bites of his as he ambled through the kitchen door into the garage with the excuse that he had to shut the garage door, only to leave his bowl hidden under the back bumper of his ’58 British racing green MGA.
“Genie, that was delicious, darlin’. Mic, get out here!” called Dad. My eyes adjusted to the dark garage, and I stretched deep into the foot well to reach the pedals. “Now, rev it, Mic!”
Looking so pretty, Mom watched Dad under the hood tinkering with his race car engine, so she didn’t notice Steve McQueen’s Velveeta mustache or Dad’s empty bowl. As Dad was leaning under the hood, Steve’s ears perked up and he came over to whine at me. Dogs hear shit. Moments later, Mom, Dad, and I heard it, too. Tires screeched as the garage door imploded at us, splintering its center, crumpling in about a foot and a half with a sound like a shotgun blast.
“What the goddamn…?” Dad’s head popped out from under the hood.
With the garage door now inoperable, Mom, Steve McQueen, and I followed Dad as he raged back through the kitchen and out the front door to the driveway to find a mop of blond hair intertwined with a sheaf of feathered brown inside a red Firebird now coupled intimately with our garage door. Oblivious, Kevin and Lilyth were making out in the front seat of Kevin’s
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