Fleeting connections

I remember countless small accidents as a child.

Mailboxes knocked over.  Lawns ruined.  Animals hit.

I remember countless screaming rages from my father as he tried to get the car into gear and drive away, loudly cursing the idiots who had so carelessly placed their mailboxes, their lawns, their animals.  I remember ducking low and silent in the back of the car, trying to be invisible.  Trying not to become a target.

I remember my mother speaking soothingly from the front passenger seat, trying to coach him through the remainder of the trip without sounding as though she doubted his ability to accomplish this task without assistance.

I remember getting stuck in sand.  And in ditches.  And in mud.

I remember once, driving alone with my father.  He had been drinking, and he was all cheerful.  We bounced along in our van, me in the front seat.  A big girl.

As much as I remember bad things about my father?  I also remember how amazing a feeling it was to suddenly, and unexpectedly, gain his approval.  To have his full attention, to hear him talk about how anything was possible.  For me.  Because I was special.

The two of us . . . we understood one another.  We were different.  Unique.

It was a hard road, he told me . . . being so much better, so much smarter, than everyone else.  People would hate me for being better.  I had to be careful.  I had to keep my guard up.

I was to succeed where he had failed.  He had let the motherfuckers get to him, but he would make sure that didn’t happen to me.  He would show me the way.

Those moments?  In which my dad believed in me?  Oh my god, sometimes those moments made all the rest of it seem worthwhile.

I always fucking forgot how fleeting that love was.  Always.

We are driving home, the two of us, in the early evening hours.  I am basking in the glow of his approval, imagining a future bright with my accomplishments.  Our accomplishments.

I see the problem ahead before my father does, but I am unable to articulate my thoughts.  I glance at my father, and he is smiling as we plow through the middle of a roadway work area blocked off with orange cones.  We drive right between the workers, their incredulous faces looming large in our windows as we drive.  We hit and then run over one of the large orange cones and drag it away with us.  I try to keep my voice calm as I mention this fact to my father.

“Dad, I think we drove over one of their cones.  It’s under the van.  They want us to stop.  Don’t you hear that weird noise?”

That last sentence is not quite out of my mouth when he swings wide to hit me with his right hand, telling me to shut the fuck up.

Screaming into my face that he has not hit a goddamn thing as I beg him to turn and watch the road instead.

And we drive on, swerving through the next intersection, the angry protesting workmen’s faces fading in our rear-view mirrors. The rubber cone drags beneath us and begins to melt against some hot portion of the van’s underside.  The stench of melted rubber fills the air, but I say nothing.  My face and neck hurt.

My feelings hurt.

The road before us swims in liquid.

We drive.

And then, eventually, we pull to the side of the road.  It is dark.

The emergency flashers on our van don’t work, so my dad stands guard as I crawl beneath the van and try to extricate the cone.  It has partially melted against the muffler.  The van is still running because sometimes it is tricky to get started again.

It is hot and loud beneath the van, and the combined smell of burned rubber and exhaust is overwhelming.  I can see my dad’s shoes as he waits impatiently.  I see a cigarette butt thrown and ground beneath his heel.

I do the best I can.  The rubber cone has ripped and shredded, and only one large piece remains, lodged against the muffler.  I pull it free and crawl out.

I stand, and my father puts an arm around my shoulders, “What the fuck was that about, right?”

And then we laugh.  My face and neck still hurting, my mouth filled with the taste of burning traffic cone, we laugh.

Laugh until the road swims before us.

And then we drive.

We are quite a team, my father and I.

I remember countless small accidents.

And I remember other things, done on purpose.

And I remember the smell.

Of burning rubber.

On another note?  But not really?

John Callahan has died.

I didn’t know him, but I felt connected to him.

Art is like that. Good writing is like that.

I hope he is laughing.

Until the road he walks? Swims in liquid.