Читать книгу Bad to the Bone: - Bo Hoefinger - Страница 16

On a small, quiet side street peppered with sensible homes, a car teeter-totters atop a four-foot-high retaining wall, its two occupants sitting in the eerie silence of an adrenaline aftermath. In the driver’s seat is my mother; occupying the suicide seat is an adorable fuzzy-faced canine: me.

The night had started out promising…how could it have gone so horribly wrong?

I blame it on Fahrvergnügen.

Fahrvergnügen. “What is it?” you ask. It’s basically when humans become one with their car. Some people have it, others don’t. My mother, she didn’t have it.

Due to her parents’ aptly placed fear in her driving skills, my mother didn’t learn to drive until she was twenty-one years old—old enough to vote, old enough to drink, and too old to date Hugh Hefner. Perhaps due to being a late bloomer, she never gained adequate confidence behind the wheel, which resulted in numerous mishaps throughout the course of her life.

On that wintry eve, less than a year after my adoption, my mother decided to head over to her parents’ house for a free meal and some conversation. I was lucky enough to be asked along for the ride and hopefully for some treats. I zipped up my fur suit and hopped into my mother’s Ford Mustang, a vehicle that—at best—handled poorly in the winter and that had recently had issues with its gear shifter mysteriously popping into drive. Based on my experiences, it wasn’t so much a mystery as it was driver error, but who am I to judge? I don’t have opposable thumbs.

I jumped up onto the cold front seat. Seconds later, my ears flapped in the gusts of frigid upstate New York air coming from the vehicle’s vents. A few blocks from our destination I picked up on the scent of my grandfather’s meal. My drool started its uncontrollable flow; my grandparents had proven themselves to be the easiest treat targets this side of the Hudson River. A few hearty sniffs confirmed I would be partaking in some of their brisket, decked out in their famous homemade sauce.

As we turned left onto my grandparents’ dead-end road, our headlights illuminated several trash cans placed at the ends of the driveways. Garbage night. Yum. My mother slowed down a few houses from our destination and peered through the frosty passenger window before coming to a complete halt. “Bo, what is that on the side of the road? Is that a doll cradle? Now, why would somebody throw that away?”

Why she found it necessary to ask me questions when I had food on my mind always perplexed me, so I ignored her. As she was apt to do she answered her own question, “I don’t know why anyone would toss that out, but I bet Aunt Marcy would love it.”

She laid out the strategy. “Here’s the deal, Bo. I’m going to drive around again so the cradle is on my side of the car. I’ll stop, grab it, and drive off without anyone being the wiser.”

I wanted to reply, “Hey, I’m not on a scavenger hunt, I just want dinner,” but I knew that once my mother got a thought in her head there was no stopping her.

She drove to the end of the street, turned around, and headed back for her prize. As we neared the crib, she swerved to the other side of the street so she could reach it from her side. She put her foot on the brake and shifted the car into neutral, then stopped in a spot where she could get it and make a quick getaway. Or so she thought.

When she opened the car door the cradle was enticingly close but still a bridge too far. My mother was forced to lean way, way out of the car in a very unstable position; her body halfway out of the car with her left hand on the cold road for support as she reached for the cradle with the right. Her tiny foot was barely in contact with the brake pedal. It was clear she needed help, my help, to get her reward.

My mind raced for a solution, the only reasonable of which was to fetch the cradle for her. Heck, it’s the least I could do for the meal that awaited me. Besides, I’m not easily embarrassed about picking garbage. In fact, I rather enjoy the notoriety of it.

As my mother leaned toward the door, I leaped over her to lend a helping paw. In midflight, my legs hit the gearshift, and I tumbled, rather ungracefully, into my mother.

It was like my mother was a cue ball and I a cue stick. I should have called the shot: “Mommie Dearest, street corner pocket,” because as soon as I bumped into her, she rolled out of the car and right onto the road.

I scrambled to steady myself only to find I was now sitting in the driver seat!

I looked down through the open doorway of the car, and there lay my mother facedown on the cold asphalt. That must suck for her, I thought, until I realized the car was moving! Now it sucked for me because I was going for a ride, whether I liked it or not.

The car was steadily gaining speed when I glanced into my rearview mirror to see my mother frantically scramble to her feet, only to slip on a small patch of ice a few short steps later. She’d never make it in time. I was on my own, driving without a license.

Well, without a driver’s license that is. I had a dog license.

I began to appreciate the difficulty in controlling a car. The concept wasn’t difficult to understand; position paws at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel, aim high in steering, and swerve at all squirrels you see. But it’s just that with my fuzzy mitts I couldn’t get a grip on the steering wheel plus my legs were too short to reach the brake pedal. I was helpless, and danger quickly approached. I hurtled toward a shiny new Cadillac with frightening speed; one last glance in my rearview mirror showed my mother pulling herself up and sprinting in my direction. A surreal feeling enveloped me and everything moved in slow motion. I could see my mother opening her mouth, yelling “Baaaaaaaaaaaa Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh! Staaaaaahhhhhppppp Thaaaaaa Kaaaaaaahhhrr!” Her arms and legs pumped up and down, but she still seemed so far away. I was now so close to the Cadillac I could breathe in that new car smell.

I had a moment to wonder if this was the end of Bo Hoefinger—certified genius, uncertified driver. I knew I should have buckled up.

Not only is it a good idea, it’s the law.

I braced myself for the crash when a hand reached into the car and grasped the steering wheel. It was my mother! In a move worthy of a Hollywood stuntman, she jerked the wheel of the old Mustang, pulled herself into the car on top of me, and swerved out of the way of the parked car just in time.

Huh—maybe she’d learned something in driving school after all.

Unfortunately, we were now headed directly toward a four-foot-high retaining wall. And this time, my mother was too slow to react.

The snow at the base of the retaining wall was like an aerial ski ramp. When we hit it, the car jerked skyward, but instead of getting airborne and doing a whirly bird at the top, we lurched to a stop.

As we sat in silence, I knew my mother was thinking, Oh please God, if you could show me just a little bit of mercy and not let anyone see what happened I’ll be forever grateful.

I remember what I was thinking: I hope the brisket doesn’t dry out.

It wasn’t until we climbed down from the car that we realized it was wedged on top of the wooden wall, with the front end over a snow-covered lawn and the back end hanging over the road.

The porch lights of the home turned on and the front door opened, revealing a man in a nighttime robe and slippers.

“What are you doing? Why is your car on top of my wall?” he screamed.

“I…I don’t know!” my mother responded in despair. “I…I must have hit some black ice and spun out of control.”

“I don’t see any black ice out here.”

“That’s why they call it black ice. You can’t see it.”

The man rolled his eyes, then took a good look at my mother, vague recognition dawning on his face. “Hey, aren’t you Gordon and Barbara’s daughter?”

Sheepishly my mother replied in the affirmative, looking like a schoolgirl who had just been caught smoking in the girls’ room.

“Can I borrow your phone? I really need to call Triple A,” she asked.

“We can call your parents if you like?”

“No that’s okay. I’d rather just call Triple A.”

“Sure I understand.” Then, trying to make small talk he said, “So, I heard you’re married.”

“Yes, but before you go there, I don’t want to call him, either.”

I understood her hesitancy. After all, she was a garbage picker who fell out of her car. I tried to hide behind her legs, lest I be recognized as well. It’s not easy being part of this family; humiliation comes with the territory.

When the tow truck arrived, I overheard the driver saying into his radio, “I don’t know how she got there; all I’m telling you is that her car is stuck on top of a wall. Yeah, on top…about four feet high. No, I don’t have my camera with me.”

Once the car was back on solid ground with no major harm done, my mother decided to forgo dinner with her parents. She gave me an apologetic pat on the head and told me she needed a night to sleep on it, to digest the evening’s events.

The only thing I’d digest that night would be some dry kibble from home.

When my mother finally worked up the nerve to tell her sister the story, all her sister said was, “So, where’s the crib?”

Doggienügen. “What is it?” you ask. It’s basically when dog becomes one with their family. Some dogs have it, others don’t. I didn’t have it, yet.

But I would.