One morning when I was 19, my dad woke me from a sound sleep by throwing open my bedroom door. “Hey, get up and get dressed,” he said. Startled, I looked at him like he was in insane. He stood in the doorway, a cigarette propped on his lips.  “Hurry up, I got a car for you to look at.” 

My dad had been on the lookout for a car that was reasonably priced and reliable enough to get me back and forth to work and classes.  A friend of his, named Art, had a four-year-old Ford Pinto Runabout with just over 20,000 miles on it. He had bought it for his wife, who never drove it, so he was looking to unload it at a bargain price.

We drove to Art’s house in my dad’s truck.  The Pinto was parked on the street; my dad pulled in behind it.  He put his cigarette out in the truck’s ashtray and opened the driver door.  “Well, let’s take a look.” He said, climbing out.  I watched him come around the front of the truck and greet Art, who was waiting at the curb.  My dad was tall and lean.  At 38 he already had a full head of gray hair. He had a walk that combined a relaxed posture with a purposeful gait. It was uniquely his own, until my brother grew up.  He walks just like him.

I got out of the truck and was already circling the car by the time my dad and Art had exchanged manly greetings.  I thought it was cute, sporty. It wouldn’t be embarrassing to drive, which met my first criteria.  As I made my way around the car, I ran my hand along the medium green metallic exterior.  I glanced at Art who said, “go ahead, hop inside.”  I opened the driver door and slipped into the driver’s seat, which was decked out in green leatherette.  There wasn’t a scratch or scuff that I could see throughout the entire car.  I gripped the green steering wheel, and imagined myself cruising along, windows open, hair whipping in the wind.  A fantasy more suited to a Mustang convertible, but I ran with it.

When I was done poking around the interior of the car, I checked out the hatchback. This, after all, was the Runabout’s selling point. I opened it and flipped the seats down.  Voila!  So much room! I imagined loading up beach chairs and my boogie board and still having room for a cooler.  I was giddy with the possibilities. 

My dad had been standing on the curb watching me check out the car. “Alright,” he said, “If you’re done, let’s drive it around the block.” Yes! I jumped in and started the engine. My dad sat in the passenger seat, his arm dangling out the window. We drove around the neighborhood, fiddling with the radio knobs, adjusting the air vents, and testing the windshield wipers, before returning to Art’s house. I parked and turned to my dad. I wanted to hug him, but instead, I said in a steady grown-up voice, “I think this is the right car for me.” 

“You do, do you?” he said, grinning.  “We’ll see.”  We got out of the Pinto and I handed Art the keys. My dad had no questions for Art about the car because he had already checked it out days before.  He thanked him and told him he’d be in touch, one way or the other.  One way or the other?  I wanted this car.

We rode in silence to a local Mexican restaurant, my dad blowing smoke out the window of his truck.   I was anxious, ready to explode.  Over lunch, after a few hearty bites of his enchilada, my dad casually asked me if I really wanted this car.  I put my fork down and took the opportunity to gush.  “Yes, Dad!  I love it,” I said. “I mean, it’s the right size, it’s in good shape, and Art said it gets good mileage.”  My hands were flying, my voice was high.  I was making my case.

“Good deal,” he said.  “But there’s a couple things to talk about first.”  I anticipated a lecture about the responsibilities of car ownership, blah, blah.  Instead, he told me that he would not be buying me the car.  My heart stopped.  “You’re buying it yourself,” he said.  Huh?  At the time, I worked at a convenience store.  My paychecks had thus far been frittered away every week on things like albums, movies, and makeup.  I lived with my parents and had no bills; it was a perfect set-up.  “Getting a loan will help you build credit,” my dad said, wiping his forehead with a napkin– the jalapenos were hot.  “But you’ll need insurance, too, and that’ll cost money.”  Insurance. I slumped in misery.  My dad thought for a minute, then reached across and bumped me gently under the chin.  “I’ll tell you what,” he said.  “Mom and I will put you on our policy and pay the premium for a year if you give us your couch.”  I perked up instantly. 

A few weeks before, I had been gifted a perfectly good couch from a friend who was moving and was going to leave it at the curb as a freebie.  My dad went with me to pick up the couch in his truck. “This is not a bad couch,” he said as he and my friend loaded it up.   It was currently sitting up-ended in my parents’ garage, awaiting the day I would move out and put it to use.  “It’s yours!”  I said, my hope restored. 

We finished our lunch and went directly to where my parents banked. My dad consulted with a loan officer while I sat fidgeting.  When he was satisfied with the terms, my dad agreed to cosign a two-year loan with me for the car, pending a ton of paperwork we’d have to provide the next day.  On the drive home, he stressed the importance of making my payments regularly and on-time, because missing payments would not only affect my credit, but his and mom’s too.   My joy turned to terror.  But the terror didn’t last because I was getting a car.

A few days later, my dad and I went to pick up the car. I had lived in fear it would be scratched or sideswiped or even stolen before I could get it home. I drove it to the house while my dad followed closely behind in his truck.  He had instructed me to drive it straight home and park it in the driveway.  Apparently, there was to be no beach cruising yet.  I pulled in and got out of the car, dashing toward the house to call my friends with the big news.  My dad stopped me just as I reached the screen door.  “Hey!  Where are you going?”

I turned to him, “To call my friends.”  He was exasperated.  He waved me back outside, “get back here.”  I did not protest, but my posture said it all.  I shuffled over to him, standing by the Pinto.

 “Open the hood,” he said, lighting a cigarette.  I clucked my tongue and reluctantly felt around the front of the car until I found the latch and creaked the hood open.  Now what?

“I want you to check the oil,” he said.  I’m sure I looked stunned.  He leaned over the engine and waved me closer.  “Come here.”  I stood next to him and leaned over, imagining the hood coming down on both of us, possibly decapitating us.  He pointed to a ring sticking out of what he identified as the oil pan.  “Pull that out,” he said.  I reached in and pulled out an oily metal stick.  I held it up in front of me.  Ew.  He showed me how to read the etched lines on the stick to tell whether the car needed oil and where to pour it in.  But I should never let it get low on oil.   He showed me how to turn the radiator cap and how much water to put in it should it run dry.  But I should never let it run dry.  He showed me how to fill the wiper fluid reservoir, less critical but still important. “Do you know where your spark plugs are?”  he asked.  I looked at him.  Really, dad?  He showed me how to change a spark plug.

He ambled a few feet away to the garage and brought back jumper cables.  They hung in a tangle from his hands.  “Keep these in your car,” he said, as he worked to straighten them out.  We leaned over the engine again and he showed me where and how the cables hooked onto the terminals.  He turned to me, his face inches away, and warned me that hooking up the cables wrong could fry me, or the engine, or both.  This was said for dramatic effect, I’m sure, but I backed up in horror.  A vision of a blackened skeleton with a swirl of smoke floating up from its skull, cartoon style, flittered across my brain.  And then he assured me matter-of-factly, “It’s not hard, you just have to pay attention.”  Will do.

“Okay, close the hood,” he said.  I gently brought the hood down and listened for it to latch.  When it didn’t, I leaned on it.  My dad elbowed me aside, pulled the hood up about a foot and dropped it with a CLUNK.  “You can’t hurt it kiddo,” he said, winking.

He walked around the back of the car and opened the hatch.  He pulled the green carpet up to reveal a hidden compartment containing a tire, a jack, and a lug wrench. “Pull out the jack and lug wrench,” he said, lighting another Pall Mall.  “You’re going to change a tire.” Crap.  I pulled out the tools and knelt before a rear tire.  It was hot that day.  My dad told me to hang on a minute, so I plopped down on my butt, waiting.  He disappeared into the house and reappeared with a cold beer.  He took a long sip and handed it to me.  I took a healthy swig and gave it back to him.  For the next hour or so, my dad ran me through everything I needed to know about changing a tire. 

I positioned the jack under the car and beyond all reason, was able to jack up the car.  I was both angry from the effort and elated with the success.  I pried the hub cap off and it hit the ground with a clank.  My dad spurred me on in his edgy way. “You’re doing great, you just need to stop griping.”  He stepped in when I struggled with the lug nuts.  He sprayed them with WD-40 and helped me turn the lug wrench to remove them.  I lifted and positioned the spare tire, it was much heavier than it looked, and bolted it back on.  “Always make sure those lug nuts are really tight,” my dad warned.  “You don’t want the tire wobbling off on the freeway.”  Another hideous image entered my brain.  Got it. 

I stood up and brushed my hands against each other.  All done.  I was hot, dirty, irritated, and more than a little pleased with myself. My dad handed me a rag to wipe my hands.  He told me to go in and clean up while he took off the spare tire and put the other one back on. “And bring me a beer when you come back,” he said.

 I changed into clean shorts, scrubbed my fingernails, and washed my face.  I grabbed a beer from the fridge and took a couple of big swallows.  I joined my dad, who was sitting at the picnic table in the front yard.  There was no umbrella, so no respite from the sun.  We both squinted.  Dad swigged from his beer.  He lit a cigarette.  I waited.

“You did alright,” he said.  “Thanks,” I said, feeling very proud.  My dad’s approval meant everything to me.

“I want you to be careful, Terry.  No crazy shit in that car.”  His eyes were deep green against his tan face.  He would have to be more specific about “crazy shit,” but I nodded in agreement. We sat for a moment.  “So, Dad,” I leaned forward and looked him in the eye. “Did you put Kelly through all of this when he got his car?” I asked, eyebrows up.  Kelly is my brother and he’s three years younger than me.  He earned his car, an older Chevy Nova, from my grandmother in exchange for weeks of yard work. I did not remember him having to change a tire after taking ownership of the Nova.  I went on, “or is it because I’m a girl?”  Nothing bugged me more than being talked down to or treated as less-than because I’m a female, and nothing bugged my dad more than ridiculous questions.

He took a long drag from his cigarette and squinted at me through the considerable smoke.  “For Chrisakes,” he sighed.  “Your brother already knows how to take care of a car.” It was true, he had stood shoulder to shoulder with my dad many times over the years while he worked on an engine, including the Nova, and had helped change a tire more than a few times. “And yeah, he’s a boy, so I’m not gonna worry about him getting stuck on the side of the road and picked up by some maniac sex pervert,” my dad said, emphasis on maniac. Point taken.

Eventually, I jazzed up the car with a tape deck, Frontier speakers, and furry seat covers.  I drove it for four years. It turned out to be a very good car, even though Pintos had a propensity to combust in rear-end collisions. 

In the years to come, I would make use of everything my dad taught me that day. As a result, I was never electrocuted by the jumper cables.  My tire never came off on the freeway.  I never sat on the side of the road because I ran the radiator out of water, so a maniac sex pervert never had the opportunity to nab me on the side of the road. Thanks, Dad.

The last time I saw him was April 1998.  We had come home for Easter.  When it was time for us to leave, he was in the front yard fixing the fence.  He put down his measuring tape to give me a goodbye hug.  His hugs were tight, smelled of tobacco and aftershave, and always ended with a kiss on the cheek.  I told him I loved him.  I gave my mom a hug and told her I loved her.  I told them both we’d see them soon since we planned to come back for the 4^th of July.  My dad went back to fixing the fence while my mom stood at the gate waving us off. 

My dad died suddenly two months later, just days before Father’s Day, the outcome of a lifetime of smoking.  I think back to the day we worked on the Pinto together and the life lessons that went with it. Not just about how to maintain a car, but about fortitude, patience, financial responsibility, and when to keep quiet and listen. He used to say to me whenever things got heated between us, or I was arguing with him for the sake of it, “if you’d just listen to me, you might learn something.”  And I did.