MaineCourse

Flesh & Blood

The website for Trusty Transport, the company bringing Matthew’s BMW, claimed door to door service. But when Jeff called from Evansville to say that Rick couldn’t drive to his house, and that he had to pick an abandoned K-Mart parking lot, I knew there would be no front-of-my-house delivery. Luckily, we live a mere two miles from a major highway and it was there that I directed Rick, with his seventy-six foot long, fourteen foot high truck, to meet us. Just off route 2, on Central St., in the Tech Central parking lot.

A mere two miles as a registered, licensed driver drives, a hellava long way if you’re towing your own flesh and blood.

Thinking I was going to reassure him, I walked back to Matthew sitting in the BMW and said,
“Matt, there are four things that can happen. And only four.
You’ll go straight, you’ll turn right (into our driveway), we might pull over to the side of road, and related to number three, we might get stopped by the police. That is it. No left turns, u-turns, stopping for gas, or whistling at friends. Oh, and one more thing, you have to have the engine on.”

“What are you talking about?” Matt asked with that, I ‘m only fifteen and you’ve already put my life in jeopardy more times than I can count, look.

I said, “Trust me,” thinking this was different from the moose and her calf in Alaska. I didn’t know the calf was going to walk within petting distance, right between the picnic table where we sat and the RV where Diane was safely ensconced. And as far as all those other events, the changing table, the high chair, the swing, the ice cube are concerned, you’ll have to discuss those with your shrink, I don’t have time now.

The truth is, I was worried about my tow rope breaking and he needed to be ready to drive to the side of the road, but for some reason I couldn’t tell him that. I didn’t want him to be more concerned than he already was
about: steering a car towed through Acton, at fifteen, with no license, with Indiana plates that expired in 1999. And did I mention, no driving experience other than our side yard and moments before, the parking lot where Rick from Trusty deposited the car?

With the yellow tow rope tied between my commercial-grade tow hitch and the wire loop on the front of the BMW that resembled my belt buckle, I told Matt we would practice in the parking lot. Which we did. We made one circle at which time, like Ward Bond in the classic fifties western, Wagonmaster, I thrust my left arm out the window, hoped that Matt in his tiny car two feet behind my rear bumper could see, and shouted - FORWARD HO. As he pointed out later, it wasn’t enough practice. As I admitted only to myself, it wasn’t about his comfort, it was all about me getting brave enough to hit the road. One loop and away we went, directly into the path of a landscaping dump truck.

Rattling in my brain was Jeffrey’s comment about how he had to drive past an Evansville cop. It was relevant because on the way to Tech Central Matt and I passed an Acton cop in the cemetery near our house, waiting for speeders. That’s when I thought to myself, way out of shouting, maybe even telepathic distance, “Matt there’s a fifth thing I need to tell you. If that cop comes out of the cemetery after us, I’m not stopping until we get home.” I’d rather talk to him in my driveway, not on the road where I would have to pay a tow truck to move the car a block. What kind of self preservation instinct would prevail, I wondered? Would Matt see the flashing blue light and try to stop, thereby leaving his engine on Central St., or would he follow his father who would appear to be fleeing (tho slow mo, ala you know who) justice?

I did my best to stay ahead of the landscaping truck, and in my rear view mirror, and Matthew’s too, the driver exhibited the patience of an out-of-stater. Maybe he was enthralled by what he was watching, I don’t know. I do know that at times I would speed up, out of respect for the truck driver, and at others I’d slow to a crawl, not wanting to attract attention. Matthew said I mostly swerved.

Our one stop, the traffic light at Rt. 111, worried me the most. Matthew was two feet behind me, and his only warning would be my brake lights. I had no choice but to trust his video game honed reflexes, and when I slowed to a stop, he did too. Flawlessly. When we got to the cemetery and saw only gravestones, I knew we were home free. And when we pulled into the driveway, my smile was eclipsed by Matthew’s, or was that a demonic, you’ll never do anything like this to me again, grin.


If Matthew had a choice, it would have been the red '86 Porche.




I drove this car thirty-five years ago. Where is Rod Serling?

Amazing what 2 miles/10 minutes worth of doing something illegal and slightly risky can do to your heart rate, never mind yur parenting style.

Reminds me of towing Diane's '70's vintage Buick convertible from 318 Beacon Street to Artie Vits garage on Sommerville Ave -- about the same distance -- oh, 35 years ago. With Mike in said Buick, me in my '72 Dodge Dart.

Goes to show, once again, that history repeats itself. And glad to see the older generation teaching the new the basic survival skills of yore.

Posted by Danno.

There is so much more to that story. One of us, someday, should write it.

Posted by Michael.

So where are all the nurturing females railing against Mike's fully aware endangerment of his sole offspring? Still on oxygen, unable yet to type?

Having stopped one day this last winter to help what turned out to be a painfully domineered woman, who'd just freaked out at very little and ended up in a 3' drifted embankment, and her obnoxiously cheerful and deprecating male companion, himself more than likely the prime cause of her freakout, I've seen some of the depths of stupidity well-meaning folks achieve. An erstwhile Samaritan with a frayed and decomposed strap and an overengined Jeep tied upwards of 20 knots in his "tow rope" as it broke time after time after time as he tried to convince himself he could pull this car out of its frozen tomb with willpower and some defunct cordage. All the while the woman fretted, the man hollered, and I regretted. Finally, just as the trooper arrived to sit and watch and do nothing, my digging out, application of tension (but not too much) to the "tow rope". and with some mighty pushing (my thighs bore bruises for several weeks), the car budged, they grew profoundly grateful, and I exited, cursing under my breath.

I'm grateful Mike and Matt arrived home with nothing beyond a good story. What else was there to do? Oh, and with a mighty fine vintage vehicle that will surely someday be the envy of every peer of Matt's who meets it. As well as even the occasional older friend.........

Posted by ownrecognizance.

You know, on thinking about it some more, it's amazing that car lasted long enough for matt to ask for and take it. I tried to trade it for an 86 GTI once...

Posted by travis.

Great account. Reminds me of something my Uncle James and his friend did when
bringing a purple Austin from Kansas City to Nevada.
Who on earth is Margaret?
Tell Matthew, I have great confidence in his ability to deal with the
unexpected. Just like his father.

Posted by Helen.

My only question is why the hell didn't you ask a friend, one who has had
years of driving experience, and more than a few miles of towing experience,
to help?

I'm glad you two made it home safely, Believe me, I know how scary that
whole experience must have been. Did you feel the sweat dripping down your
spine?

Posted by Mark.

Well, it is of SOME comfort to know that it's not just my dogs that Michael
puts in danger!!

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Posted by Michael at July 4, 2003 09:06 PM