by Pam Avoledo
I step on the gas in Dad’s restored 1997 Acura NSX. The first car he ever drove. The car he bought with his own hard-earned money from working at the family diner by his house. At his job, he bussed tables and flirted with the hostess from the rival high school. She taught him how to smoke on their breaks. “It got me where I needed to go,” he told my brother and me.
Like the store, to pick up whatever his parents forgot and grab himself a six-pack with his fake ID. It even got him all the way to the University of Maryland with a blinking tire pressure light. Like to the bar where he met my mom, who told him flat-out she wasn’t interested after he bought her a drink. She was dating someone else. But my dad didn’t care. He drove the car every Thursday night back to the bar to talk to her. She eventually relented. It was only supposed to be one date. Six months later, she was pregnant.
The brakes squeal as I turn the corner, blowing past the stop sign, leaving marks on the road.
It got him to the hospital. He was going to be a father of twins. He was going to take his baby girl to get ice cream and dolls from the toy store. He was going to take his baby boy to baseball games. He was going to graduate soon and be able to find a better job. But the baby girl had a heart problem and was in the hospital, putting the new family into debt, so he sold his 1997 Acura NSX to help pay for surgeries. He promised he’d get it back someday.
My foot stays on the gas, the lever struggling to stay on mark as I reach 100 miles per hour on the expressway.
I sang in the chorus on stage. Dad asked, “why weren’t you the star?” I ran in a marathon. Dad said, “you should know better,” and I said nothing more to him.
He watched the value of the car go up and remarked that he shouldn’t have let it go. He searched online, meeting people in other states. He took his son with him, taught him about the motor and the design. They attended car shows together. They found one in Indiana and fixed the spark plugs, the brakes, the tires. He said it’s just like the one he had.
I exit the expressway, turn left on the service drive and slam into the overpass. The car hangs over the bridge, the smoke shocking my heart and I’m alive.
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Pam Avoledo’s work can be found at pamavoledo.com.