An Odd Moment of Understanding By Andrew Blumberg The first time my mother drove up in her shiny new minivan, I could not have fathomed that the massive soulless hunk of rolling metal she piloted would ever be my car. The 2000 Dodge Caravan perfectly suited an on-the-go mother of two, yet at the tender age of thirteen, I could not imagine bolting along with this grocery carrying, snack packing, child proof locking machine as my vessel of teenage freedom. However, four years later, the Soccer Mom-mobile slowly transformed into my adolescent carriage. My mom has the funny habit of naming her cars like she would a pet. She wanted to name the van “Patriot” because of its overwhelmingly blue exterior, but my younger sister and I forced her to christen it “Sebastian” based on the threat that otherwise every car ride would begin with a rousing rendition of “Under the Sea”. I turned sixteen and that minivan became my regular mode of transportation. Despite its new driver, Sebastian still felt like my mother’s car. I can say with absolute certainty that my mother’s minivan is the only person, place, or thing that has ever screamed “make over” to me. It started when I removed the middle seat and replaced it with an animal print quilt that drastically changed the flavor of my conveyance. I converted it from responsibility, wisdom, and propriety to rebellion, angst, and reckless youth. Over time I filled Sebastian with the trappings of a high school student: a cow patterned steering wheel cover that glided across the palm of my hands at every turn, a series of sarcastic bumper stickers to let passers by know who I am, what I believe, and my policy on the solution to all life’s problems in relation to underwear, a dog tag that dangled from the rear view mirror and danced in the recirculated flow of the air conditioning vent, and most importantly an enormous collection of CDs to be blasted at the highest volume with the windows down for all the world to hear. Sebastian was reborn, and reborn as mine. Despite the metamorphosis, my mother clung to the car as if it were a child, threatening to grow up and grow apart. In the time before my departure for college, she seized every possible opportunity to swipe Sebastian from my evil clutches and constantly reminded me that it was still her car. She still treated it like her car too. I would return to find my steering wheel cover under the driver’s seat - she hated how it loosened her grip on the wheel. My noise making miniature stuffed animal would be buried in the middle compartment - it wrongfully occupied her cell phone’s rightful place. My precious animal print carpet, so crucial in transforming the spirit of this craft would be littered with old newspapers, entertainment magazines, and half-consumed bottles of water - what did she care? It pained me to watch Sebastian, nothing more than a bulky construction of shocks and struts and engine, so harshly mistreated. Alas, I could do nothing but clean the minivan out after each of my mother’s abuses and hope a reprieve would be called in for the poor thing. One morning as I ventured to retrieve the newspaper, there sat my mother within the warm embrace of the driver seat. She rolled the window down and said, “with you heading off to camp, I guess I’ll be driving this all next week.” Perhaps a rusty piston scratched against a metal surface or the starter hiccuped as she turned the ignition or a screw somewhere in that bucket of bolts popped off, but the minivan made a noise...almost like the whinny of a horse. I walked over, patted Sebastian on the hood and whispered, “It’ll be okay.” For a split second, we both understood. Sometimes we all have to learn to let go. By Andrew Blumberg "Great," I replied. She tilted her head sideways and sighed. "Please, try to be good Daniel. Just because we're proud of your brother doesn't mean we love you any less." She took Molly downstairs to feed her and I was left alone in my room again. I heard my parents drive away and I began to read. I let myself get lost amongst the words. I drifted through the pages for at least half an hour until a loud noise from the backyard awoke me from my reverie. I heard the sound of Johnathan's B.B. gun going off. It seemed more and more often that he would spend late nights in our well lit backyard, shooting cans off the old wooden fence and harassing the squirrels and robins that wandered through from time to time. Dad bought the weapon for him when Johnathan received his rifle merit badge back before he could even level the gun without standing on a phonebook. It was his baby. I walked over to my window, about to bang on the glass and yell at him to knock it off when I noticed something odd. He had Molly on a leash next to him. The mechanical blasts and the ear piercing sounds frightened her. Johnathan knew this. He stopped and patted her on the forehead to calm her down. He picked up an old tennis ball I had left on the back porch and threw it into the grass. Molly knew the game. She slowly struggled to find the ball. She limped painstakingly along the back yard until she found the bright green sphere and turned to return to the porch. Then, suddenly, Johnathan shot the gun into the air and she scampered away as best she could. Johnathan lowered the gun and took aim. Bang. A pile of leaves right near Molly collapsed. She leapt in the opposite direction, howling in fear and strain. Three shots this time, all in succession, the last one dangerously close. "Damnit," Johanthan cursed. He dropped down to one knee and brought the sight right up against his eye. Pop. Molly cried as the B.B. pierced her right hind leg. She limped as best she could to the fence at the back and raised her two front paws to the top rung. She stuggled with her every ounce of strength to lift herself over. I stood dumbfounded as Johnathan took aim one more time. Click. The pellet penetrated through the back of Molly's neck. My guardian fell from the fence and her limp body hit the ground with a sickening thud. Johnathan laughed. A frightening silence swept through the yard. No neighbor dogs barked. No night birds chirped. No crickets filled the evening with noise. Nothing. Total silence. The blood flew from Molly's neck and spilled onto the ground. She stuggled once more to move but let out one final yelp and her head drooped, never to raise again. Her bright red blood covered the harsh black ground. I stood there, watching as my best friend died in agony. I stood shocked, bewildered, unmoving.. A single tear ran down my face. Then I looked at Johnathan, my brother, and my blood began to boil. By Andrew Blumberg I suppose it would do me no harm to play along with your little joke for awhile,” Dr. Foster said at last, breaking the silence. “Good mental health.” Dr. Foster cleared his throat. “So you, Geoff Calloway, killed a man?” “Yes.” “A drifter.” “Yes.” “And where is this drifter now?” “Dead.” “No no no. What did you do with the body?” “I buried it in the cemetery.” “And nobody noticed you burying a drifter? There wasn’t an undertaker or somebody?” “No one. It was raining that night. I don’t think anyone would have been too anxious to patrol a cemetery at midnight in the middle of a thunderstorm.” “No one has reported a missing person?” “I don’t believe so.” Dr. Foster scratched his head. So far Geoff did not falter a bit. There had indeed been a thunderstorm a few nights ago. Dr. Foster remember tossing and turning in his bed. Rain always meant bad news. “Geoff, you’ve had your fun. If it makes you feel better I almost half believe you. Now I know it must be killing you to keep that straight face, so admit it’s a joke and we’ll take an early lunch together.” “Samuel, I am not lying to you. I killed a man in cold blood! Don’t you understand!?” Dr. Foster had never before heard so much emotion in Geoff’s voice. He was unable to tolerate more. His small hand wiped the sweat from his reddened brow. “Get out of my office Mr. Calloway.” Dr. Foster barked to his friend. “But Sam--” “Get out I said! Get out! Leave my office immediately!” Dr. Foster turned the deep red of a brand new copper roof. He stood up out of his chair, pushed open the door with sufficient violence that it almost fell off its hinges, and pointed a long, slender, domineering finger outside. He looked sternly at his friend of twelve years. Geoff Calloway rose from his seat and drifted through the door, never once daring to glance at his fuming partner. Dr. Foster slammed the door behind him. He resisted the urge to yell “Good Riddance!”. Dr. Foster sat down, removed a handkerchief and wiped more sweat from his forehead. He was unsure whether it was because of anger or fright, but his hands were quivering like wet birds. He closed his eyes and counted backwards from thirty. Slowly but surely, Dr. Foster’s face returned to its usual dull beige and the same emotionless expression he’d seemingly carried since graduation. He cleaned his glasses on his sweater. “Miss Bellamy,” called Dr. Foster. “You may send in the next patient.” Copyright © 2000-2005 Andrew Blumberg. |