The Words - An Autobiography

Now What?

My mother wanted me to go to college, which I would have done if only to appease her or, more honestly, not listen to her about it. But I'd compiled a record of such consistently poor grades, even with exceptional test scores, the schools where I had applied immediately rejected my application. And by then, it was too late to apply for fall admission to any of the schools more likely to admit me. So, college was out until the spring semester and probably not until the following fall.

Since I was no longer a school student and had no plans to attend college, my stepfather determined it was time for me to begin pulling my weight and paying my way. I would pay for room and board, which led me to investigate finding an apartment since I was also tired of being told what to do while getting knocked around. And somewhere in my mind was the unlikely possibility of having girls over to spend time at my new apartment. That was until I discovered that even some cheap, hole-in-the-wall dump, where none of the girls who interested me would ever consider spending time, would be more expensive than what my stepfather was demanding that I pay him. So, I came to terms with remaining at home being my only real option until I could find a better-paying job. And that would also require having a car since it was unlikely that I'd find a job paying better than the carwash near enough to walk to work. But, even remaining at home, what I had left from each paycheck after paying my stepfather wasn't enough to save money for a car or much else, to which he told me, "Welcome to the real world."

Then my uncle called. He was in the process of buying a new car and offered to sell me his old car for what they'd offered him as a trade-in. But I would need to find a way to get the car myself, and he lived half a day's drive away. My stepfather immediately made it clear that he wouldn't drive me down there. He had work to do and a living to make. My mother didn't feel comfortable driving that far herself, even if she'd only have to drive home. So, I took the bus, leaving early on a Saturday morning, having arranged for my uncle to meet me at the local bus station midafternoon.

It wasn't until I sat in the driver's seat that I discovered that the car had a manual transmission, and I'd never driven a stick before. My uncle laughed and insisted, "You'll be an expert by the time you are home." He provided a brief demonstration of how to use the clutch and shift, then left me to give it a try on my own in the parking lot of his apartment complex. My initial efforts included stalling the car a dozen times, then nearly putting myself through the windshield, mistakenly jamming my foot on the brake pedal instead of the clutch. But after a half-hour of gradual improvement without hitting any of the other cars in the lot or causing myself any injury, he assured me I was ready to go. So, off I went, jerking down the street, stalling the car again at nearly every traffic light and stop sign before I reached the highway, after which he'd also assured me I wouldn't need to shift again until I stopped for gas, then not until I was nearly home.

But the adventure before that included being stuck at a traffic light at the top of a hill and, the light turning green, and I couldn't get my foot from the brake pedal to the gas quickly enough to keep from drifting back down the hill before I could engage the clutch, then I stalled again. Then another car pulled up behind me, too close, the driver clearly impatient, and I panicked, trying not to back into him when the light changed and stalled the car again. By the time I restarted the engine, the light had changed again, and the guy behind me was hard on his horn. Adrenaline pumping through my veins, I popped the clutch, stomped the gas, and spun tires right through the intersection with the light red. Thankfully, there was no cross traffic or police to witness this.

I was more relaxed once I reached the interstate and, as promised, was no longer required to shift gears again for a while. Then it began to rain, hard, and by the time I pulled over for gas, my jeans were soaked to the knee from the water splashing up from the road through the floorboards. Having been focused on learning how to shift gears, I hadn't noticed the hole in the carpet between my feet where I could easily observe the pavement passing beneath me.

Several coworkers at the carwash worked on their cars. Junk cars and no money didn't leave a lot of options. A pair of them claimed to know what to do and promised to help. I'd have to pay for a case of beer and maybe, depending on what they could rustle up, for whatever parts and materials were required. When the car was up on jacks, and we had a good look underneath, there was shockingly little remaining of the floorboards to support the seats. I'd been lucky not to find myself sitting in the parking lot the first time I sat my ass in the car and more so that I'd somehow managed to return home alive. But one of the guys who'd promised to help claimed he'd had the same problem with one of his cars and knew where to find what he required to repair my floorboards. I asked whether he needed money. He laughed and told me he had it covered.

While we waited for him to return, a couple of my other coworkers helped me unbolt and remove the seats from the car. When we peeled back the carpet, chunks of rusted floorboard came away with it, leaving two large holes, one on the driver's side and another on the passenger, each providing a clear view of the pavement beneath the car. There was a short debate about whether the carpet was worth salvaging. We finally agreed that I'd be better off cutting up a discarded rug and gluing that down when I remembered an old piece of carpet on our trash heap that my stepfather hadn't wanted me to throw into the pit. So I raced up the hill and returned shortly with it rolled up on my shoulder.

The coworker who knew where to get his hands on the material to repair my floorboards returned with a pop-rivet kit and pair of speed-limit signs that were a perfect fit for the holes we'd discovered when we peeled back the carpet. I had concerns about the stolen speed limit signs but agreed, after a brief discussion of the alternative, I also didn't want to be arrested trying to return them to where he'd found them. Nor did I care to be the one returning the pop-rivet set that he confessed was a five-finger discount from the hardware store. So, with my moral discomfort resolved to be unresolved, we riveted the speed-limit signs to what remained of my car's undercarriage. We glued down the discarded carpet, trimming away the excess with a utility knife, drilling a few holes through the carpet and speed limit signs, then bolted the seats back in place. One of my clever coworkers joked that I could never honestly claim I wasn't driving above the speed limit for as long as I owned that car.

With a beer in my hand that I paid for, but one of the older guys had to pick up at the distributor, the reality hit me that I'd have no more thousand question interrogations when I wanted to borrow my mother's car. I was also reminded of the coworker's ex-girlfriend who'd agreed to pop my cherry. An opportunity he informed me might still be available if I wanted to get the back seat of my car broken in properly. But I shouldn't wait too long. I might already be a little old for her since I'd had a birthday since meeting her the previous summer and was legal now. I may have passed my expiration date for underage cherry popping.

The following day - otherwise, the discussion would have concerned the beer on my breath - my stepfather inquired how we'd managed to repair the floorboards. I tried to think of some plausible story but finally gave up and told him the truth. In my old hometown stealing speed limit signs was criminal; if caught, you went to jail, plain and simple, no debate. In my new hometown, this was considered an act of ingenuity. My stepfather laughed, agreed that it was clever, and it could be that I wasn't as dumb as I acted.