“You think you got this whole fucking thing figured out, son?” my father screamed at me through clenched teeth. “Fine, then why don’t you just get the hell out of here and go do it.”
We were already many hours into this fight and getting closer to that moment, the moment that would change things forever and set about a course of actions that would guide me for years to come.
“Fine,” I fired back as I grabbed my wallet and car keys off the kitchen table. I stormed out of the house, slammed the big metal door, shaking the entire structure, and ran to the little tan Plymouth Colt my parents were letting me use.
I’d already dropped the transmission on this one in my efforts to learn a standard. I jammed the key into the ignition and without dropping the clutch, I jammed the car into reverse, slamming my foot on the gas pedal. The little hatchback screamed in protest as I whipped around my mom’s white GMC Safari van. My eyes closed in anger, the car shuddered for reasons I didn’t understand – I pressed my foot harder on the gas pedal, nearly punching through the floorboard, but the car wouldn’t move.
A scream erupted from my mouth and I opened my eyes to see the driver's side door, a door I hadn’t closed, bent backwards running parallel to the side of the car – the snow pack. In my anger and frustration and rage I hadn’t taken into account the snow pack and how close my car was to it. I’d angled the car all wrong and nearly torn the door off its hinges.
I stood there, fists clinched, back rigid, glaring at my father.
The walk back into my house, up the stairs of the porch and through the door, seemed like an eternity to get past.
I stood there, fists clinched, back rigid, glaring at my father.
They’d heard the commotion of the car-door ripping from the frame. They’d looked out the window to see what had happened.
Article comments