Page 129 of The Fed Sex Man

Jo

I crossedmy arms over my chest and let out a huff. “Why can’t we just follow you?” I pleaded. “You know I hate riding in this car. It reminds me of when I was a kid.”

My father opened the driver’s door and paused. “We’re all going together. In one car. We can’t all ride in that damned race car of Tyson’s, so we’re going in this.”

I opened the door and nearly barfed.

“It smells funny,” I complained. “How about we just follow you?”

“We’re all going together,” my father growled.

“Since when do we go out to eat on Sunday?” Jarod asked. “We always eat here.”

“Yeah,” I chimed. “And since when do we eat at four o’clock?”

“Since right now.” He climbed inside. “Get in the damned car, Jo.”

“I like this car,” Tyson said. “Is it a sixty-nine?”

“Seventy,” Daddy shouted out the window. “Graduation gift. Never could bring myself to get rid of it.”

I looked at Tyson and rolled my eyes. “One of the many reasons you remind me of him.”

“In the car, Jo,” my father bellowed.

“Josephine,” my mother said softly. “Get in, please.”

“Fine,” I breathed.

My bare skin skipped along the plastic seat covers until I took my position at the center of the rear seat. The covers had preserved the seats for forty-eight years, keeping them in likenew condition. The trade-off was a horrific smell and ridiculous hard plastic to sit on.

“Wherever we’re going, just hurry,” I said. “Before I get sick.”

My father lifted the ancient fedora from the car’s dash, placed it on his head, and checked himself in the mirror. “The good thing about a Coupe De Ville is that no matter how long it takes to get there, you make the trip knowing you’re going in style.”

He started the car. “Get in, Jarod, or I’ll leave your ass standing there with that dumb look on your face.”

After Jarod got in, my father backed out of the garage. I was certain our week-long vacation memories were going to be replaced by the recollection of a family outing in a car from plastic seat cover hell.

As we merged onto the highway, my father reached for the dash-mounted tissue holder and let out a laugh. “Anyone need a Kleenex?”

“No,” I snapped. “I don’t need a fifty-year-old tissue.”

“That’s awesome,” Tyson said. “I need to get one of those for my car.”

“You better not,” I insisted.

As the car floated down the highway, memories of my childhood drifted through my mind. Wiping ice cream off the seat covers with the edge of my thumb, fearful that my father would see that I’d come close to getting it on the floor.

Going to the drive-in theater.

Getting in street races at stoplights with high school kids while my mother yelled for him to slow down.

Jarod slapping me with the spare seat belt strap while we waited in line at the Carl’s Junior drive-thru.

My father’s constant threats to rid himself of the car each time he filled it with gas, only to be followed up with a wash, wax job, and polish when we returned home.

My incessant complaining that the air conditioner was cold, but never cold enough.