Big Mike: The Break Of My Life

October 20th, 2009

Pulling up to Soma coffeehouse last night made me think of the single luckiest moment I’ve ever experienced.

Beautiful fall night. The sky crystal clear. Leaves on the sidewalks. Indiana U students shambling here and there, either giggling or speaking of weighty matters as college students do. Soma’s my new favorite place in the world. A perfect coffeehouse, run by alt-chicks who have none of that big city barista contempt oozing out of their pores. The music caters to both the young (hip-hop, for instance, during which time I put on my headphones) and old bastards like me when they play, say, Bjork, Lush or Gang of Four.

I was in a hurry to park and get in because I was bubbling over with a rebuttal I wanted to post on my and Peter Ajemian’s new blog, Cub Fan, Hub Fan. Saw a space up ahead and speeded up to grab it. Flipped on the turn signal, pulled alongside the parked car ahead of the space, just as high school drivers ed teachers prescribe, and shifted into reverse. Doing everything by the book.

Suddenly, I was hit with a flash, the horrifying memory of a time I didn’t do everything so right.

I drifted back to the late summer of 1972. I was the proud possessor of a crisp new drivers license. I couldn’t have had it more than three months. My most valuable thing in existence. Had a discordant deity offered me the choice of losing my new DL or never seeing my family again, I would have had to think for a moment.

My best pal at the time, a motorhead named Marc (who, before falling in love with Lakes pipes and fuzzy dice, had been a chubby righthanded pitcher who threw heat — no batter in Little League or high school could touch him,) had bought an old beater Ford Galaxie for $40. The thing was a wreck, the engine seemingly about to explode every time he turned on the ignition, the body crumpled and folded as if it had been driven off a cliff. Marc spent countless hours working on the car. He dropped a new engine in it. He replaced three of the four quarter-panels. He rechromed the bumpers. After a few months, the car sparkled like new. Refurbishing that Galaxie had been the accomplishment of his young life.

We were hanging out in his garage that August Saturday afternoon. Marc was buffing the car even though it already shone like the mirror in the Hale Telescope on Mt. Palomar.

Marc: “Whaddya wanna do tonight?”

Me: “I dunno.”

Marc: “Wanna get somethin’?” [Code for: “Do you want to find an adult sap who’ll buy a bottle of Boone’s Farm Apple Wine for us?”]

Me: “Yeah.”

Marc: “Too bad I’m broke. I had to buy new floor mats yesterday.”

Me: “My sister owes me for babysitting. You wanna drive me to her house?”

Marc: “Nah. I’m tired. You wanna take the car?”

Me: [Aghast.] “This car?!”

Marc: “Yeah.” [Code for: “My heart is filled with platonic love for you, dear friend, and I’d trust you with my mother’s life.”]

Jumping into the driver’s seat of that Galaxie was almost as thrilling to me as the time, two years later, I squeezed my first breast on the floor of my girlfriend’s dorm room in Carbondale. I flipped the radio on, loud, as I drove slowly down the alley. Marc watched me all the way down, like a father bidding adieu to his little girl going off to college. Only after I turned right on Bloomingdale Avenue along Amundsen Park and was out of his sight did I floor it. Man, I made those wheels spin. I must have left a quarter inch of rubber on the city’s streets before I got to Franny’s house a mile away.

I drove slowly down Marmora Avenue, hoping Franny’s neighbors might see me and think Now there’s a noteworthy young man — he’s driving a car! I pulled up in front of Franny’s bungalow, Chuck Berry’s “My Ding-a-ling” blaring on the radio. My four-year-old nephew Dougie was playing in front of the wide oak tree next to the curb.

I shifted into reverse. I thought perhaps Franny and her neighbors ought to know I — the noteworthy young man — had arrived. So I punched that gas pedal, hoping to squeal into the space like Steve McQueen as Bullitt in his dark green Mustang. Oh, how impressed they’d all be with my driving skill! None of this sissy caution. I was bold and loud — just watch me!

Naturally, a sixteen-year-old with a three-month-old license is no more capable of squealing into a tight parking space than he is of planning for his retirement. The car bolted like a Saturn V booster. Before I could react, I heard a huge crash and was jerked to a stop by that wide oak tree. Leaves poured down on the car as if it were Fall.

By dear god in heaven — Dougie! I’d killed him! Jesus fucking Christ! I’d crushed him between the rechromed rear bumper and the tree! Oh no, oh god no, no! I leaped out of the Galaxie, screaming hysterically. I forced myself to look for Doug’s flattened body but I couldn’t find it. That’s how efficiently I’d crushed him. I sank to my knees and wailed.

Then, the break of my life. “Uncle Mike! Uncle Mike!” — it was Dougie’s voice. Why? How? For some reason he’d moved away from the curb, away from the tree, as I pulled up. The crash scared the poo out of him — literally. But he was alive.

I grabbed him and, ironically, almost crushed him with a hug. I only let him go when the smell of his loaded drawers overpowered me. Then I experienced the first of several nervous breakdowns I would have in my life. This one was worth it.

All these things were on my mind as I backed ever so slowly, ever so cautiously, into the parking spot near Soma.