The Green Machine

"Are you serious? He said that?" I was sitting cross legged on the floor of my room, the receiver of my princess phone cradled between my ear and shoulder. Various school books and papers were scatter around me, but they were forgotten as I listened to my best friend tearfully describe her boyfriend's latest offense. Personally, I thought the guy was a jackass, but who was I to have an opinion?
 
My Dad poked his head into the doorway of my room and I knew I was busted for unauthorized phone use. " Hey Sue? I've gotta go. My Dad needs me. Talk to you later," and hung up before she could sniffle one more time and pushed the phone away. I was sooooo busted.

My father glanced at the maelstrom of papers, books, and various teenage paraphernalia with his 17 year old daughter at the center. In what seemed like a million years, his blue eyes met my brown ones. I loved his eyes, the color of faded denim. They sparkled when he smiled.

"I'd like to come in and talk to my girl, but I don't know where to step."

I grimmed at him and waved my hand over the mess. "Anywhere. It doesn't really matter."

And it didn't matter--the man wore a 15 shoe size. At 6'3", he had enough trouble avoiding decapitation from the ceiling fan. He finally collapsed on the bed next to me with a WHOOSH .

" I keep forgetting it's a long fall from up there," he gestured toward the ceiling. Then silence. I was starting to get nervous. Maybe I was going to be punished for being on the phone? Maybe my parents had decided to send me to an all-girl boarding school in Outer Mongolia?

"Dad? You said you wanted to talk to me?" I chewed my lower lip and tried to brace myself for anything.

"Well, I've been thinking."

My heart started pounding in my chest.

"You've had your driver's license for over a year now and your mother and I are proud of the respect and responsibility you've shown, even when your friends are driving like lunatics."

Butterflies were attacking my stomach. My heart felt like it was going to explode.

"So we decided to buy you a car of your own." He turned to me smiling as he watched his announcement finally register. When it appeared that the ability to speak may not return for hours, he took my hand and helped me to my feet. "C'mon, lets go take a look."

I jumped up and practically sprinted to the door that lead to the garage, all the while trying to figure out what kind of car waited for me. Could it be the red convertible I begged my parents for as soon as I turned 16? Or maybe it was that black Mercedes the Blond Adonis cruised in? Oh my god!!

Finally, we reached the garage door, the only thing that separated me from euphoria on rubber.

"Close your eyes," Dad instructed and I obeyed, holding my breath. I heard the door open, felt the cool air caress my cheeks, and inhaled all the garage smells, knowing that my beloved car added it's own scent.

"Now...1. 2. 3! SURPRISE!!!!"

The bright lights suspended from the high ceiling  of the garage blinded me for a second.
A large, green blur began to take shape. And it was huge. This couldn't be a car. It was a tank. I was speechless.

Dad didn't notice. "Isn't she a beauty? 1970 Pontiac Grand Prix. 455 cu in V8 engine. Takes off like a bat outta hell." He paced around the car, patting it here, caressing it there. When he reached the front end, his hand formed a fist and he slammed it on the hood. "Hear that? Steel. Solid steel. Nothing's safer. Go ahead! Climb inside! See how the console wraps around you? Exactly the same as a cockpit of a plane."

He was right about that. Yeah, the leather seats were cracked, there was an odd sticky substance that covered the dashboard, but I could handle that. Still there was the matter of the car's color.

Dad tossed me the keys and climbed in the passenger side door. "C'mon. Let's see what this baby can do." He looked like a kid on Christmas morning who still believed in Santa Claus. How could I tell him that this car was the ugliest thing I'd ever seen?

We drove out of town toward acres and acres of nothing but dirt. I had to admit that I liked the cockpit design, felt the rumble of the engine and began to understand why Dad thought that this was the kind of car he had when he was my age. Suddenly, the ugly paint, the cracked seats and dashboard goop disappeared. We finally reached a spot in the middle of nowhere. I turned to my Dad and smiled. "Ready?"

He nodded. "Let's hit it."

I floored it, tires squealing before the traction caught the dirt surface, and then we were flying. The engine was singing.

My father reached  across the console and gave my hand a squeeze. And then Dad and I roared into the horizon of perfect memories.
.