Lifemobile

by Jonathan Rintels

  I could relax. I no longer had any doubt that Benjy could drive a car safely. In fact, in 30 days, he had grown into the most safety-focused driver I had ever seen. By sheer concentration, he had overcome every challenge his Asperger’s presented to his competence behind the wheel. Just as important, Stan had been right; he would never, ever indulge in the driving weaknesses of normals. There would be no texting, no phoning, no radio playing, no alcohol—nothing other than a thousand percent hyper-focus on moving a Corvair safely from Point A to Point B. If I’d had a “normal” child, I’d be worried to death every time he or she got behind the wheel. But I’d ride with Benjy any time; if he was driving alone, I would not lose sleep.

  Which is why I had lost so much sleep over the past week. Because it meant that something I never believed could happen, now might actually happen. I had always wanted Benjy to get his driver’s license; it would be another step—a ticket—to his living independently and finding his own place in the world. But did he really need to drive a real race car? In a real race? Since that had always been impossible, I’d tried to be supportive. “Of course you’ll race one day,” I’d say. “There are no limits to what you can do if you try.” What parent wouldn’t say that? Why dash his hopes? It was like the Tooth Fairy—a harmless parental fib that a child eventually outgrows. He’d learn the truth soon enough. Why be the Bad Guy if I didn’t have to?

  But over the past week, as Benjy’s driving became more and more proficient and the Grand Prix loomed, I had to face the very real possibility that he had actually come to that moment where dream might become reality. He might actually qualify to race a real car in a real car race—and that race was tomorrow! Sure, it wasn’t a real NASCAR-style speed race. Kenny had sworn it wouldn’t be like that, but what the heck did he know? He hadn’t been to a Grand Prix in years; maybe it all had changed. Maybe the Grand Prix drivers today really slammed the gas pedal through the floor board and took turns on two wheels. What if something happened? Something bad? It was all happening too fast. I couldn’t relax. I couldn’t sleep.

  But now I had the best possible outcome. Benjy would get his driver’s license on his second try with a different examiner next week and be a fine, safe driver. And he would not be eligible to race tomorrow. I would sleep well tonight.

  Within what seemed like a blink, Benjy was parking the Corvair directly in front of me. Perfect, I thought; he’d barely gotten out of the parking lot before the examiner flunked him. Then the examiner threw off his safety belt and hurled himself out of the car. Excellent! He couldn’t get out of the Corvair fast enough to process the paperwork to fail Benjy. As he rushed past me, he muttered, “I sure wouldn’t let my child drive an unsafe car.”

  “Neither would I,” I shot back furiously. The nerve of that guy! Talking about my kid and my car like that! The examiner responded by spitting right behind me into the bushes just as the DMV office door swung shut behind him. If there had been any chance that Benjy might have passed the road test, I had just cleverly squelched it.

  Fifteen minutes later, Benjy had his driver’s license. “He said he wanted to flunk me, but I didn’t do anything wrong,” Benjy recounted to me as I pretended to seem thrilled. “And I didn’t talk about Corvairs while I was driving. I didn’t talk about anything. I was too busy going over my checklist. He liked my checklist. He said if I wrote it out and brought it back to him, he’d give it to other new drivers because it’s a really good checklist. He thinks it should be included in the DMV training manual.”

  “Well, we should celebrate,” I said, even though I felt like crying. I had been double-crossed by a DMV examiner who seemed so unreasonably prejudiced, yet turned out to be so scrupulously fair that he was now one of Benjy’s biggest fans.

  Benjy declined to go to McDonald’s. We hadn’t returned after we learned Lydia had been fired. Wendy’s would be enjoying his patronage from now on; their Chicken Nuggets were superior, he claimed. But now he insisted we go to Kenny’s. “To prepare for the race,” he said.

  “Stop worryin’!” Kenny exploded at me. While Benjy turned practice laps in the Deathmobile, efficiently navigating his way around the Corvairs in the field, I’d been trying to persuade Kenny that letting him race tomorrow was not a great idea. He wasn’t buying it. “He’ll be fine!” he shouted at me. In an old biddy’s voice, he mocked: “What if this happens, what if that happens? I’m so scared.” You sound like my Aunt Mildred. She worried whether the sun would rise the next day. Heck, I was younger than Benjy when I first raced!” He took a long swig of his soda, then crumpled the can and threw the empty at me. “If you don’t want him to race, fine. But do you know how many people have been killed in all the years of this race? None. Do you know how many have been injured? A couple. The worst was a broken arm. I mean, come on! It’s safe!”

  He cracked open another soda from his suddenly alcohol-free cooler and took a long swallow. “They got a zillion rules for safety. Too many if you ask me. Like no alcohol,” he said just before he burped loudly. “Even though I’m cuttin’ way back. Which your boy got me to do, by the way,” he said, pointing out to Benjy. “Look, we installed a safety cage in the car. We installed a safety seat in the car. He’s wearing a safety suit and helmet while he’s drivin’ the car. They black flag anyone not drivin’ safely. Heck, he’ll be safer on that track than he’ll be drivin’ on the highway to get there.” He took another big gulp of soda and belched. “I got to drive with one hand on the knob on the steering wheel and the other on the hand control for the pedals. I cain’t exactly walk away from the car if there’s trouble. And they’re lettin’ me drive. That’s how safe they think it is. That’s how safe I think it is.”

  Kenny took another big swig, crumpled the can against his forehead, then continued ripping me. “He did everything he had to do to get here. He deserves it. He earned it. And look at him! He’s doin’ it just right, no cowboyin’ around out there. Mister Smooth. Safest driver ever. So you do your own dirty work—I don’t want no part of it.”

  “Look, he’s my son,” I explained. “I’m concerned, okay? I don’t want him hurt. And maybe I wonder if you’re being so supportive of him racing tomorrow because you want to race. And if we drop out, you can’t.”

  Kenny glared right through me. “Get off my land,” he ordered. “And don’t come to the racetrack, either of you. I’d rather not race than race with you, okay? There, you got your wish—he ain’t racin’. Was that yer plan? Go on, get out of here. He’s welcome anytime. But I don’t want you around no more.” He turned and rolled away from me.

  That wasn’t my plan. I didn’t have a plan. All I knew was that, as I’d done with Katie, I’d said whatever popped into my head, no matter how hurtful it was, with all the sensitivity of a cinder block. “Kenny,” I said, “I’m sorry. You just proved I was totally wrong and I apologize for thinking it and saying it. I just don’t want to lose my son. That’s all this is about. I lost my wife a couple years ago, and I can’t lose my son.”

  Kenny kept his back to me, staring out at the field. “I don’t want to lose him either,” he finally said in a voice so low I could barely hear. “I know you love your kid. Well, I love that kid, too, y’know.” He spun his chair to face me. “You say you don’t want to lose your son. You better know that, if you don’t let him race now, you will lose him.”

  I knew he was right.

  “It’s been five years, man,” Kenny said, after a long silence. “Five years of hospitals and rehab and then comin’ back here in this chair and feelin’ like I couldn’t do one single, solitary, damn thing. I don’t feel that way anymore. I finished fixin’ up that Deathmobile. And I’m gonna fix up and sell all them Corvairs in the field. You just watch. It’ll take me ten times as long as anyone else, but that’s okay, I’ll do ’em ten times as good. There’s still enough Corvair lovers and garbage races to run. There’s money in it—there’s a business. Even if there ain’t, at least I won’t be sittin’ around doin’ nothin’ except fee
lin’ sorry for myself. At least I’ll be livin’ again. And all that is because of that kid. Because I yelled at him, and he called me out, and he made me see what a sorry ass I’d become. He’s even got me thinkin’ maybe I ought to try some college, the way he carries on about it.”

  “That’s great, Kenny, really,” I said. I walked over and put my hand on his shoulder.

  “I know you don’t think much of me,” he said, gazing out to the field. “We got off on the wrong foot. You came along at my worst time. I’m not really that bad. I’m tryin’, I really am.”

  “I think you’re good, Kenny,” I said. “Really good.”

  We stayed like that, with my hand on Kenny’s shoulder, watching Benjy, until he drove the Deathmobile over. The mannequin torsos no longer stuck out of the shark’s mouth; Kenny decided they were a possible safety hazard. Benjy released himself from the straps of the seat, hopped out, and took off his helmet. “How was I?” he gushed, pumped up like a bull frog.

  “Outstanding,” I said, because it was true. “How’s the car?”

  “It runs better than ours!” Benjy crowed. “That rebuilt engine is great!”

  “Those new tires I put on it help, too,” said Kenny.

  There was an awkward silence. Kenny eyed me, waiting for me to tell Benjy that we had to stop, that the whole idea of him racing had been a fantasy that should not become reality—at least, not tomorrow.

  I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t do it. Kenny was right. It was time to put the fear aside. If something terrible happened, forgive me, Annie and Benjy and Grandpa and everyone, but I just couldn’t deny him. I couldn’t say no.

  “Well, I guess I better practice,” I said. “I don’t want to let you guys down tomorrow.”

  “Yes!” shouted Kenny, slapping his thigh with joy. “We are racing tomorrow!”

  Benjy eyed us both quizzically. “Of course we are,” he said.

  On the western horizon, headed our way, I saw menacing thunder-bumpers that threatened to unleash a deluge. Annie, was this your work? Had I so abdicated my parental responsibility that you’d put in a word with the Higher Power to put a stop to this?

  “Looks like rain coming,” I said. “We might get rained out.”

  “Is it like NASCAR?” Benjy asked. “Do they dry the track after the rain stops, then race?”

  “Heck, no,” said Kenny, scanning the sky. “They ain’t got no billion dollar blowers; they ain’t even got towels. But that don’t matter cuz it ain’t gonna rain.” He sounded confident. Like he’d also had a word with the Higher Power.

  CHAPTER 18

  The morning of the race dawned with a sky as clear and pastel blue as my father’s old Corvair. Summer’s usual strength-sapping, breath-stealing humidity had taken the day off. I groaned after I opened my blinds to look out the window; Kenny apparently had more pull than Annie with the Big Man and it was depressingly obvious the race would not be rained out. I trudged into Benjy’s room as if my feet weighed a ton each and opened the curtains to the unwelcome sun. “Can’t be late for the drivers meeting, dude,” I muttered with resignation. “We need to go. Unless you want to sleep in. If you’re tired. Or having second thoughts. There’s no pressure to go. I’m sure Kenny will understand if you don’t feel like it.”

  Benjy leaped out of bed, revealing that he’d slept in his clothes in order to make a faster getaway to the racetrack. After a quick breakfast, we each grabbed a handle of our cooler filled with food and sodas and hauled it out to the Corvair. As we opened the front trunk to store it, Benjy said, “Dad, there’s a homeless person in the car.”

  Sure enough, with a dusty, decrepit coat over his head, someone was sound asleep in our Vair’s back seat; in front was a garbage bag bulging with clothes and possessions. “We should call 911,” Benjy said. “He may be hungry or need a doctor. Homeless people often have trouble getting the services they need. They are often discriminated against.”

  That may have been true, but our Corvair seemed an odd place of refuge for a homeless person. I opened the door, reached in, and gently shook the intruder.

  It was Lydia. With the sun catching her flush in the eyes, she blinked herself awake. “Hi,” she said lethargically, twisting herself upright. “Surprise,” she added, yawning.

  “Why aren’t you sleeping in a bed?” Benjy demanded.

  “Long story,” she sighed, stretching. “So did you get your license? Still going to your race? See, I remembered! Today’s the big day. I’d love to see you race. Can I go with you?”

  I asked to hear Lydia’s “long story.” Because I suspected she was running away. And so she was, but with parental permission.

  “Okay, long story short, my step-dad is a pig,” she said, climbing stiffly out of the back seat. “We’re always fighting, which makes my mother crazy. So I asked my real dad if I could live with him and The New Wife for at least the summer and he said okay, as long as we all get along. Except I wasn’t going up there till next week. But last night, this creature my mother married got drunk….” Lydia’s words came faster as she got upset. “And he yelled at me about getting fired from my job and leaving my jerk boyfriend and what a piece of trash I was. To which I said, ‘Yeah, I am really sorry I lost my job; I forgot I was supporting you, and what a bummer for you—maybe now you’ll have to get your own job! And I thought Bobby was such a lying loser, but you make me realize he’s an absolute prince, compared to you.’ So he threw a beer can at me, which he often does, except this time it was full and it hit me in the head. My mother got hysterical, and so did I, and things kinda went south after that. So I’m going to my father’s a week early, and I need a ride and don’t have a car or money, and he lives in West Virginia someplace. And I remembered my good friend, Benjy, was headed there to race today. So here I am. Begging for a ride, please, please, please.”

  “I think you should be able to live where you choose,” said Benjy approvingly. “Me, too,” he added with a look to me.

  I cringed. “Benjy, I hope you can see that Lydia is talking about an abusive home situation, which is very, very, very different from us,” I told him.

  “I still should be able to live independently,” he insisted.

  Lydia laughed. “You see, right there, that’s why I like you, Benjy. You say exactly what you’re thinking, you don’t play games. But, hey, you got a good thing going at home. What do you want to leave for?” She jabbed him playfully in the chest.

  “Oww,” he said, rubbing his chest.

  “So guess what?” she went on, practically pleading. “My father said he will pick me up at the track. And at the race, to pay my way, I can be a mechanic or a cheerleader, whatever you need. Except I don’t know anything about mechanics or cheerleading.”

  “Great!” shouted Benjy. He looked over at me, and I nodded. I was thrilled to have her join us, as long as her parents agreed.

  Lydia’s smile lit up her face. “Promise the wheel won’t fall off again?” she asked Benjy.

  “My friend Kenny is a Corvair mechanic, and he fixed it,” Benjy said confidently. “It’s great now.” For the next 90 minutes, until we reached the racetrack, interrupted only by my phone calls to Lydia’s mother and father to verify that she wasn’t running away, Benjy evangelized the gospel of the Corvair to Lydia, detail by excruciating detail. I checked the rear view mirror often during the drive to see if she was bored. She appeared fascinated.

  In the garage area of the Summit Point racetrack, coughing and wheezing clunkers rolled off trailers and into their assigned stalls. Disgraced, execrable nameplates like Gremlin, Pacer, and Yugo commingled with broken-down taxis and used-up police cars in an ignominious congregation of automotive donkeys that had somehow escaped the glue factory. Weird as the cars appeared when parked, in motion their bizarre paint jobs and getups made them look like a NASCAR parody. One decrepit Oldsmobile minivan had been transformed with paint and aluminum foil into a cruise missile. A team of Scandinavian Vikings wore fur loin cloths and ram’s-horn
helmets while working on their Fred Flintstone-ish “Saab Story.” A dilapidated Cadillac hearse was rumored to be carrying a deceased visitor from a galaxy far, far away that, prior to its passing, had been held prisoner in Area 51; the race team members, heavily armed with squirt guns and peashooters, refused all comment, citing National Security.

  Kenny had already arrived at our assigned stall, hauling the Deathmobile on his truck trailer. Our killer shark on wheels glittered, relatively-speaking, as most of the other racers looked no better than rolling cow pies. Kenny had polished not only our racer but himself; he’d cut and washed his hair, trimmed his beard, and put on a clean T-shirt. Returning to the race he’d missed for five years, he positively glowed.

  We introduced Kenny to Lydia, and his glow went supernova. “You dog, you!” he teased Benjy. “You didn’t tell me you had a lady friend.”

  Benjy blushed, turning as purple as when Kenny’s dogs attacked him. For one of the few times in his life, he was speechless.

  “Whatever,” Lydia laughed, putting her arm around Benjy, who not only didn’t flinch, but smiled. Separated from her stepfather by 90 miles, she glowed almost as brightly as Kenny, and reveled in the Grand Prix’s silly zeitgeist. “This is totally goofy cool,” she exulted.

  Just then, four Vikings from the Saab Story team ambushed Kenny, blew a ram’s horn in his ear, and hoisted him onto their shoulders. “Dad, they’re kidnapping Kenny!” Benjy cried out.

  “I think they’re old friends,” I said, seeing the social cue of elation on Kenny’s face. “Very old friends.” As the Vikings paraded Kenny through the garage, more and more very old friends of Kenny from races run long ago engulfed him, welcoming him back like a long-lost member of their zany tribe. Word spread through the pits; soon, the crowd of racers and crew members passed him around on their shoulders, cheering. He was home again, and he was happy.