Story Sundays

So, in an effort to post more than once per calendar quarter (or less), I thought daily themes might help. Since I have more time to type and I'm marginally less brain-dead on the weekends, I've declared that Sundays are Story Days. It can be something interesting/infuriating/amusing that happened this week, or a story from somewhere in the past. It may be my story. It may be someone else's story. Hopefully it will be worth reading either way.

This week's story is a cautionary tale for the holiday season just past.

During the mid-80's I was in high school and my dad drove a red Mustang GT he called "Kit" after the car in Knight Rider. According to him, it was his midlife crisis car; he could just see the young guys in the cars next to him at stoplights shaking their heads at the old guy in the hot car. It was his pride and joy, and he kept it immaculate inside and out. At that time he was a steelworker at a plant about thirty minutes from home. He'd spend his shift in a filthy,cavernous warehouse filled with lead, steel, and dirt. Then he'd shower, change clothes and drive home.

A few days before Christmas that year, he was working the afternoon shift. He left the house around 2:00 that afternoon as usual. Around 11:00 that night, I woke to a racket as he came home. I got out of bed, because normally he was quiet when he came home at night. My mother came up the stairs from the family room to meet him on the landing, exclaiming "What on earth--"

My dad stood there swaying, shit-eating grin on his face, still wearing his safety glasses and hard hat, and as filthy as a coal miner. "Hey, we've been havin' a hell of a party!"

"I can see that," my mom responded. "Don't tell me you drove home like this!"

Dad shrugged and dropped his lunch bucket. "I just told the car, 'take me home Kit', and Kit got me home."

We found out later that one of the truck drivers had brought the steelworkers a couple cases of beer and a bottle of whiskey for Christmas. Dad was no stranger to beer, but he usually stayed away from the whiskey. Evidently he hadn't abstained that evening.

Mom herded him up the stairs to the bathroom, because she flat refused to let him get in bed as dirty as he was. She got him to sit on the toilet to get his work boots off, then pulled me into the dining room and hissed, "Get a flashlight and go check the car. Make sure he didn't hit anything."

So while she cajoled and nagged him into a bath (because he couldn't stand up straight), then a shower (because he didn't want to take a bath), I went outside in 20-degree temps in a flannel nightgown and slippers to make sure that Kit hadn't made any wrong turns that night. I'm still not sure which angel had been on the job that night, but the car was fine. Other than a hangover and a very dirty bathtub, there was no damage done that night. As far as I know, it never happened again.

(I never got a chance to drive Kit. My dad traded the Mustang in for a Ford Fairmont right before I started Driver's Ed. Considering what happened the second time I drove our Escort, that was probably for the best....but that's a story for another Sunday.)