My mom had just moved us across the state of Florida, again. We moved so many times that I’m not sure where we were living previous to this move. Maybe on the beach in Ormond or north on A1A in Ormond By The Sea. My mom and I should have opened our own moving company as we had become extremely proficient in the process. In fact, many times we left stuffed boxes packed because we were sure another move was imminent.
(cue phone ringing) RING-RING
“Hey Carole, it’s Boss Dude. Yeah, so we decided that we have another property that needs you. You start in ninety days. Yeah, I know you just moved yesterday but I’m doubling your salary. See you soon. Click.”
On this particular move to the Gulf Coast, a call like this one came in, and we still had not unloaded the moving truck. I am pretty sure we could pack/unpack everything in our home while watching back to back episodes of M*A*S*H. Forget broadcasting, I should have opted for opening my own moving service. Maybe call it the “#1 Son Moving” company? She always called me “#1 Son” or her “baby”, even though by the time I was ten, I was an integral part of raising my brother Henri. He’s lucky to be alive.
This trek through the Sunshine state seemed more difficult for me as mom was single at the time. Hard to believe, as she was married and divorced four times by the time I was twenty one. Richard The Dad, Peter The Insurance Salesman, Henri The Millionaire Drinker and MF The Salesman. Mom likes God’s Chosen People, a lot. I think there was a failed engagement as well, to a guy named David. So, with no man around, I became instant free labor.
Mom hangs up the phone with Boss Dude then turned around and gave me that look. The “baby, I’m so sorry I just took you out of school-moved you across the state again-but don’t get comfortable-we’re moving back in three months” look. I know she felt bad but I also know that every move meant another promotion/raise and she always made it up in other ways. It was a few days after, in a torrential downpour, that my mom asked me to make a run for cigarettes and Diet Coke. That meant hopping on the bike and peddling about a mile north on the island to the only 7-Eleven. Even though I was only fifteen, I never had a problem buying smokes for mom. I carried a note in my velcro Ocean Pacific wallet that served as a free pass to buy Marlboro Lights, later she switched to Moore Reds. Yuck. They were long, thin, dark brown and tasted like poop in a box. Not that I ever stole hers. Most clerks would read the note, signed very professionally by Carole E. Whatever-Her-Last-Name-Was-At-The-Time, and allow me to make the purchase for her.
The rain was falling loudly on the patio and not even my mother would send her child for smokes in this monsoon. I jokingly said to mom, “well, I can drive your car!” She didn’t bat an eye. Mom reached into her purse and threw me the keys to her brand new 1982 1/2 Cheverolet Corvette.
1982 1/2 Chevrolet Corvette Hatchback
I can’t imagine that the Vette had more than a few thousand miles on it, and most of those were racked up during the previous days move. The keys flew across the room in slow motion and there was a driving rhythm I heard, that I realized later, was my heartbeat. I remember thinking to myself that she was about to yell “sike” and ask for her keys back but it never happened. As I made my way to the front door, I peered back over my shoulder just enough to see her continuing to unpack but not enough to let her know that I was second guessing her mother skills. A mom just gave the keys to a car that must have cost her about thirty thousand dollars and had a motor suited for jets to a fifteen year old boy that did not have a drivers license. For the record, I had never driven any car unless you count my dad’s riding lawn mower because it had headlights. In fact, I’m kind of mad at my mother for this act of kindness. It’s a terrible way to start your driving career because I still have not owned a car that was that cool or fast.
I made it to the store and back without incident but it’s kind of difficult to wreck, driving seven miles an hour. I was so scared that I essentially idled the car to the store and then was almost run off the road by an elderly couple in a golf cart on the way home. Damn Florida drivers.
This year my twin daughters turned fifteen and are chaffing at the bit to drive. Maybe I should send them to grandma’s house!
K~
Half a Bagel 