When I was twelve years old, I broke down a five-dollar bill into two packs of Bubble Yum bubblegum, a slice of pizza at Dominic’s, and a Metal Edge magazine to find out when Iron Maiden was coming to town. These were important to me, but the money came with a price— the jolt my back would feel as Pop put the shifter into second gear and stole the breath from my lungs at 7000 Rpm’s. It will be her, not Pop, that would rob me of my prize.
“I dare you to grab that five- dollar bill off the dashboard,” Pop said, “and if you do, it’s yours to do whatever you want with.”
We headed down 611 at seventy miles an hour, with the roar of 400 horses leaving my mind numb. I felt him staring at me with a competitive gaze of a veteran fighter, ready to take down the naïve rookie with a jab to the gut.
“What are you afraid of,” he bellowed confidently, “I can’t possibly beat you to the money on the dashboard ‘cause I have to shift.”
“I’m not afraid of what you can do, but what she can do,” I said.
Hussy was her name. A 1969 Dodge Charger with a 440 Six Pack, perfect interior, and the mystique of “Dukes of Hazzard” draped over her. She did not exclaim the proud virtues of the South with a Confederate flag on her top, but with a shiny black vinyl that my father spent countless hours buffing with protectant. She didn’t have orange skin, but a pearly white that blended with the light of day, but at night glistened underneath each overpass light, disappeared, and glistened again as a testament to her permanence.
To me, she was just the sister-bitch. The one I needed to defeat.
Pop yelled, “how are you afraid of the car? She is only a car for chrissakes!” “You might do the shiftn’, but she is the one who can stop me from reaching that five- dollar bill on the dashboard,” I said.
“That power is in my hands,” he said.
I didn’t respond. I knew the truth.
Pop had the car cruising along and paid little attention to the song “Waiting for a Girl Like You” by Foreigner, and more to my bodily motions as I strategically placed my hands to my sides. She wasn’t going to beat me this time, I thought to myself.
“Hussy is tough to beat Pop,” I said.
“Your mother has called her that from day one, and it doesn’t mean you have too son,” he said authoritatively, which left little room for a rebuttal.
It was inevitable from the day my father bought her from the old lady on Highland Street that Hussy would become part of the family. On a Sunday, he saw the dusty white silhouette of a Charger, heading towards the Acme with a For Sale sign on it. He saw through the grime and brake dust and saw the vision of an angel. A rescuer to the pride of MOPAR and the defeater of all the Chevy’s and Ford’s. It was only that following Wednesday when Hussy became a Williams.
“Sorry Pop,” I said sounding like a taped recording, “I am just used to hearing it from Mom.”
“Well, she’s just jealous of my Baby. Deep down I know she likes it,” he said as he flicked ashes out the window with an outward sway, so as to not have them come back in to soil the back seat. Pop preferred Baby as a name to the adulterous Hussy.
“I do think she likes the car Pop, but is just scared of it,” I refuted, “and it scares me sometimes too.”
“You can’t be serious son. Remember, it is just a car that goes fast,” he argued while carefully watching my hands to make sure I was not distracting him with conversation.
“It means more to you and well….” I hesitated and left it at that.
“I’m Going to Win” is starting its run on the tape. Pop turns it up just high enough where we need not yell, but sufficient to drown out the conversation. The competition was his main concern.
He looked at my hands again and said, “are you going to make a go for it or what?”
My mind wandered to the time my mother told me never to tempt Pop to go fast, and try not to foolishly bug him into races with the crazy teenagers in Mustangs.
“You know what Hussy can do,” she said, “and it doesn’t have to be proven every Sunday afternoon on 611, or whatever godforsaken place he takes that car. Put on your seatbelt and stay quiet.”
Mom didn’t seem to see that I was helpless in two ways—my father’s control of the conversation, and Hussy crying out “MORE! MORE! MORE! GIVE ME MORE!”
Three times Hussy had stopped me from getting the prized possession, and the forces of power had to change despite my mother’s fears. Half asleep the night before, I plotted that I would wait until Pop would take a drag of his cigarette, and plunge towards the five- dollar bill with both hands. If one hand were thwarted by the wrath of Hussy’s speed, it would be impossible for her to stop the other, and thus, my slice of pizza at Dominic’s.
He gave me the final ultimatum with a smirk, “we have one more mile before I turn around, and then you are out of luck. I’ll use that five dollars for a pack of cigarettes and a coffee, I’ll tell ya’.”
I didn’t respond. I was fully focused on his actions without looking at him. He was a blur on the side of my vision, and his motions were all I cared about. This was between Hussy and me. She didn’t seem to have the same concern, purring along at 3000 Rpm’s like a confident champion at the top of her game. She had the right to feel that way. She had become everything to my Pop, and I felt her in the spaces of my life, even when she was tucked away in the rented space at Sunoco where Pop worked. This inevitable conflict was going to hit the climax today, and I wanted the spaces back for me.
The cigarette was never far from Pop’s mouth, because leaving it close to the window meant ashes all over Hussy’s interior. He kept it low, lying softly on his thigh, and I had studied the time I needed to spring for the prize. We had hit the turnaround where the 611- median barrier ends. A No U-Turn sign was posted, but none of the other hot rodders followed it, except when the occasional officer was parked in the nearby Tru-Value Hardware.
“Dammit” Pop said, “bastard cops got nothin’ better to do than bug us hot rodders.”
He removed his boot off the brake and tapped the gas. Hussy gave an approving roar, ignorant of my plan as Pop lifted the cigarette to his mouth.
“NOW,” I yelled at myself and sprang with the left hand. Hussy was a quick one, and she put all into the torque when Pop hit the pedal, reaching for the shifter to drop into second. The force of the torque lunged me backwards, but from the momentum I reached forward with my right arm, sending me into a 180 Degree turn. I felt the greasy five- dollar bill in my hand, and I clenched on to it and pulled back. I tucked it into my lap and covered it with both hands. Hussy was not going to take it from me now.
Pop let off the throttle and dropped Hussy back into drive. She purred graciously in defeat.
“Well, it was about friggin’ time,” he said, “I was wondering if you were ever goin’ to beat me!”
I didn’t beat you. You were only the soldier, and I was after the Queen, I thought to myself.
I replied, “yeah,” and stayed quiet until we reached the Dunkin Donuts where all the hot rodders met to exaggerate their feats.
“Coffees on me, well I mean for you Pop,” I said.
“You can have one too, son.”
We left Hussy in the parking lot, curved between two spots. I looked back, and even though the headlights were tucked under the grill, I felt watched. There were more battles to be fought, but I was going to enjoy this one, and certainly a slice of pizza at Dominic’s.