by J.M. Green
When the phone rang on a Friday morning, I stretched to read the caller ID and quickly picked up.
“Hey ya Ma!”
But I heard the old man’s voice, which was weird. He never called. I thought for a second, “Oh no, did something bad happen to mom.” He assured me mom was fine.
He asked if I had plans for the weekend, did I have time to see him, could he pick me up. Plans? See him? I was caught off guard by this strange line of questioning and before I knew it, I blurted out “no” and then a “yes” and then another fucking “yes.”
He told me he’d be in town to scout a high school football game that night. Maybe Saturday morning, before he drove back home, we could go out for some breakfast. Despite the awkward gesture, I said that sounded great because I love breakfast and he loves breakfast, and we could at least talk about how much we both love breakfast.
The next morning, he picked me up and after we exchanged pleasantries, I decided to start the conversation since my mother wasn’t there to fill that role.
“Well,” I mused, “The Drakkar definitely smells better in your car than cigarettes and English Leather. It’s good to see you’ve upgraded your cologne game a bit.”
“Hmm.” He grunted.
Whether he didn’t get the joke or didn’t like the joke I decided to play it safe.
“So, where we eating?”
Over a western omelet and stack of pancakes I asked how the scouting went and what schools he watched. He was vague with the details, and the more I pressed about the score or the mascots, the more agitated he seemed, so I decided to change the subject, again.
“I think I need a car. I think it’s time.”
He nodded his head and asked why, like why now, like why not just wait until I graduate in June.
I told him I had an internship downtown, which was true. I told him there was no other reliable mode of transportation between campus and downtown, which was not true.
He nodded his head with a little more squint in his eye.
“What’s the real reason? You can tell me.” With a fork in one hand and a knife in the other he rested his forearms on the table and leaned forward. “I can keep a secret from your mother. I promise.”
He was interested, like genuinely interested. So, I told him the truth.
I had met a girl. Not as much a girl as a goddess. And she lived in Cincinnati, and I needed to see her as much as possible, and I needed to charm her before she realized she could do better.
Once I started blabbing to the old man I couldn’t stop.
And for the last few weeks I had paid friends more money than I should have to borrow their cars. I told my old man that the weeks had never moved slower and when Friday afternoons arrived, I’d never driven faster. A complete smoke trail down I-71.
The old man smiled. “For a girl is all I needed to hear.”
As I finished another stack of pancakes, we reviewed my finances. He seemed excited. Like, tonight’s poker night with the guys excited. I hardly recognized him. He promised to send me the Christmas and birthday savings bonds my grandparents had gifted me since birth. He was impressed with the money I was pulling as an intern and how much I had in savings. He estimated my down payment and calculated my monthly payments.
When the boring stuff was done, but the father and son moment wasn’t, I confessed that I really wanted something sporty. I couldn’t afford a sports car, I knew that, but how close could I get?
His eyes lit up. “What you want is one of those new Toyota Paseos.”
My eyes lit up. “Yes, what I want is a new Toyota Paseo.”
We drove to the nearest Toyota dealership where we found a white Paseo automatic and a teal Paseo automatic.
He frowned. “Well, you don’t want a lady car.”
I frowned. “No, I don’t want a lady car.”
The old man raised his brows, and I saw the saleswoman walking toward us. The hair was bleached blonde; the skin was tanning bed bronzed. She looked just like his favorite waitresses or department store clerks. I knew the routine. I felt my face turn red hot. He’d ask her name. He’d say the name a lot. Act like they’d been old friends. I was just glad I didn’t know this one, like someone from class or a girl from the neighborhood that the old man didn’t recognize anymore.
He smiled and requested the keys for the white one.
After the old man and I drove it around the block a few times—he wanted his turn too—he tossed the keys back to the woman.
He winked at her. “Honey, I think my boy wants a red one.”
I nodded. “Okay, yes, I think I’d like a red one.”
The old man said he had to get back home; he had other plans, and I didn’t press any further because we had such a good morning that I didn’t want another high school football score and mascots moment. But he promised to return in a few days; maybe Honey would get a red one in by then.
I wasn’t sure I had a few days in me.
As soon as he dropped me off at the apartment, I rifled through the yellow pages. The second dealership I called that day said they had the inventory I’d be interested in and so my roommate Jason drove me there. I thought the trip might cost me something, but he seemed happy to help buy a new car on someone else’s dollar.
I made him swear to drag me off the lot if they didn’t have exactly what I wanted. What I wanted was a red Paseo, with a sunroof, with a spoiler on the back, with a stick. What I wanted was to make the right decision.
“By the way, that’s another reason why I need you with me.” I placed my hands on his shoulders and leaned forward. “I don’t know how to drive a manual.”
“How do you not know how to drive a manual?”
“Nobody’s ever taught me.”
“Why the hell would you buy a manual if you don’t know how to drive one?”
“Because it just looks fucking cooler and by tomorrow night, you’ll have taught me.”
Jason shook his head, rolled his eyes.
But by Sunday night he had. Everything Jason had told me during his test drive was true. Seemed to handle well. Seemed to have good pick up. Seemed to be better than his piece of shit Honda that I had never driven.
Most importantly, as I sped off to Cincinnati the following Friday, I would have one hand on the wheel and the other on a stick. The sunlight would shine down on my head from up above.
Though the old man wouldn’t approve of the girl, the goddess, because of the red curly hair for one and the environmental science major for another, he would approve of the Paseo, because of the sunroof and the red spoiler.
Two years later, I found myself at the Infantry Officer Course in Quantico, Virginia. Over a long holiday weekend, I drove my red Toyota Paseo from Virginia back to Ohio to pop the question. But my days of burning up the highways in the red Toyota Paseo were soon coming to an end.
Two years of speeding tickets was hell on my insurance. I even managed to get a speeding ticket on my way to pay for a speeding ticket. I was sick over the extra money I was now paying for the red Toyota Paseo. And I feared losing my license, because I knew nothing could slow me down on those trips to Cincinnati.
I called her on the phone, “But I hate giving up this car because it’s how I got you.”
She called me a moron and said I knew nothing about women.
I’m not sure I knew anything about men either.
My old man interrupted my sleep on a Saturday morning after my night of small-boat raid training in the Potomac River with the other second lieutenants. When I heard the old man’s voice, I thought for a second, “Oh no, did something bad happen to mom.” But he still tried to assure me she was fine.
He seemed excited.
“Your mother told me all about your insurance problem. So, I came up with a plan to save you money.”
“Okay,” I said.
“What you want to do is sell me your car and buy my car. The Tercel’s a little less sporty and ten years older. The insurance will be a lot cheaper.”
I felt my face turn red hot. “Sure. I mean yes. I’ll sell you my car. And, and you sell me yours.”
It was spring. I’d be out on a two-week training exercise somewhere in the woods somewhere in Virginia. That’s when the old man wanted to make the trade. I asked him why then, why not wait until I return, why drive all the way from Ohio to Virginia and not at least have breakfast. He had a reason but was vague with the details. I reminded him that he once had training exercises, he should get it, but the more I pressed about his trip and the swap, the more agitated he seemed, so I decided to shut up.
When I left for the field, I left my red Toyota Paseo with a sunroof, with a spoiler on the back, with a stick, in the barracks parking lot. I parked her in a space at the end of a row where she would have shade, where she wouldn’t get too hot. When I returned from the field, I found a red Toyota “Turd-cel” with a hatchback, with a stick, parked in the same spot.
And that was okay. The Paseo had done its job. I impressed the woman of my dreams. And that red Paseo didn’t play favorites either. The same courtesy it offered to an officer and a gentleman; it offered to a sneaky son-of-a-bitch.
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J.M. Green is a former Marine Corps platoon commander with the 3rd Light Armored Reconnaissance Battalion. He served as an intelligence officer at the National Military Joint Intelligence Center during Operation Enduring Freedom. He is the author of the poetry chapbooks The Novice Angler (Finishing Line Press) and Super Rich (Pudding House). His writing has also appeared in Forklift, Ohio, The Oklahoma Review, Cincinnati Magazine and other publications. Green is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at Miami University in Oxford, Ohio, where he also writes for the alumni publications Miamian and Miamian Express.
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