Sunday Story: Rogue Vehicle
No recipe today. Instead a Sunday Story in honour of Father’s Day, showcasing my dad’s quirky sense of humour as we take unpredictable rides in a car with a mind of its own.
Rogue Vehicle
Our old LaSabre had no power brakes or power steering. The gear shift was on the steering column, not the floor, allowing the front seat to stretch uninterrupted from the driver’s door clear across to the passenger’s. The expanse of smooth vinyl was icy cold in winter and searing hot in summer. Yet we coveted the middle seat.
On family outings, one lucky child would sit in the front while the other two sat in the back straining against the seat belt for a peek at the road ahead. Wedged between Dad and Mom, the Chosen Child could witness first-hand the magic of Dad’s self-driving car. It didn’t happen every day, only on special occasions — like on the way home from church or en route to our grandparents. Even then, there were no guarantees.
No one knew how the magic worked or what triggered it, but when least expected, Dad had no control over the car whatsoever. When the car decided to take charge, the large, lumbering Buick went where it wanted, never where Dad told it to go. It didn’t just ignore his commands, it was downright defiant.
“Turn left, Car!” Dad ordered in a loud voice. And the car would stubbornly turn right or go straight. Never left.
“No, Car!” He would grasp the steering wheel and lean dramatically to one side, tugging at the wheel. But it wouldn’t budge. “I said, turn left! LEFT!” The obstinate car refused to follow directions, and the louder Dad barked his instructions, the louder we laughed.
Sometimes he’d throw his hands in the air in frustration, turn to the middle-seat child and say, “Maybe the car will listen to you.” With ecstatic hope, we’d give the car a command. If it obeyed, we let out a collective cheer. If it didn’t, we shrieked with laugher and demanded Dad try again.
“Why won’t it listen to me?” he’d moan. We had no answers.
“Did you do something to the car?” He looked at us in the rearview mirror, accusing us with his eyes. Unable to speak for giggling, we shook our heads no and waited eagerly for the next vehicular act of defiance.
At stop signs, the car might refuse to go. But when Dad wanted the rogue vehicle to slow down and turn into the driveway, chances were it would glide past our house at a steady pace, forcing Dad to drive around the block. At least once. Maybe twice. And all along the way, the car disobeyed at every opportunity. It was more exciting than a flying carpet.
Sometimes Dad used reverse psychology. “Car, go straight!” And the car would pull gently into the driveway. “Tricked you!” he’d say to the dashboard. “I wanted you to do that!”
And before we could unbuckle our seatbelts, the car would roll back down the drive and onto the road for one more trip around the block. We were giddy with delight. Dad pounded the steering wheel in exaggerated frustration.
We knew the ride was finally over when Dad shifted the gear to park, shut off the ignition, and removed the key.
We scrambled out of the rebellious vehicle, and tumble onto the lawn, half-expecting the now-empty car to take a trip without us. But with the keys firmly in Dad’s large hands, the car sat quietly in the driveway. The ride was over for the day and order restored.