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My Roadrageous Dad

A true short story by Jamie Thompson

In the early 1970s I was a young teenager on the road to coming of age. It was around that time that my dad and I had an incredible misadventure together – a frightening and unbelievable experience that is as vivid in my memory today as the day it happened. I'd like to share that event with you. But first I should give you some background so you can understand what happened in a broader context.

My roadrageous dad turned 50 in 1973 and, unbeknownst to me at the time, his life, along with my family life, was slowly dissolving.

My dad was an entrepreneur. An independent, self made man, with a home-based business - at a time when the phrase was not yet a part of our culture. He was an intense fellow. He was known to be funny, iconoclastic, progressive, opinionated, stubborn, argumentative, frugal, quick to anger, and ready to lock horns with anyone who he thought was doing him wrong in some way - whether they actually were or not. He was the poster-boy for one who blisters and chafes under anything that smacks of higher authority in the workplace. Hence, he was an entrepreneur, in part, because he was the kind of  man who really needed to be his own boss.

Throughout the 1950s and 1960s my dad's business flourished. Our family lived very comfortably - but it required him to travel all over the country. In those early days he typically came home on the weekends because he primarily traveled by air. As the 1960s came to a close, though, air travel became infeasible for him so he started traveling nationwide by car instead. No more were the regular trips to the airport to pick up my dad, and no more were my dad's weekends spent at home with the family. As my childhood came to a close and my teen years unfolded, my dad went from a weekend visitor to my life to a stranger who straggled in once or twice per month to visit with us for a few days before going back on the road for weeks, or sometimes even months at a time...

I often wondered what his life was like on the road. What did he do when he wasn't working? Did he spend all of his time alone? Did he go to the movies? Or did he just sit in a cheap hotel room somewhere and watch TV?... or did he do nothing at all? His life on the road was a mystery to me.

When he came home he typically slept most of the time. When he wasn't sleeping he wandered through the house looking for things to get angry about – he was usually successful. It was my habit, in those days, to make a run for the door when he was home and stay out as long as possible because he typically spent most of his awake time yelling about one thing or another and it was pretty unpleasant.

His habit was to make his desires, grievances, and his latest corny jokes known, in his absence, by typing notes onto 3x5 cards, while he was home, and then taping them to the refrigerator door, or onto a bathroom mirror, or onto a screen door to the outside – somewhere where he hoped someone would read them. Sometimes the notes were hand-written with a thick felt-tip pen but most of the time they were typed. Then he'd go back on the road and life at home would return to “normal.”

I remember, on one occasion, reaching for the refrigerator door handle and seeing one of his 3x5 cards that said, “That's irrelevant! No, irrelevant has a long trunk!” It was a good way to spoil a would-be snacker's appetite and save money on our food bill, I suppose...

In the fall of 1973 I had just turned 15 – still too young to drive. My primary mode of transportation was my 10-speed bike. I was taking guitar lessons with Russ Faith at Newtown School of Music. Newtown, PA was about a 20 minute drive from our house so it would've been near impossible for me to ride my bike there with a guitar in tow. Typically my mother drove me but, on one occasion, things went very differently...

As I said earlier, as the late 1960s gave way to the early 1970s, my dad's life was unraveling. Part of that disintegration process was his marriage to my mother. I didn't know it at the time, but years later my mother told me that she was very unhappy with my dad's chosen life on the road. Of course, that was the only life I ever knew him to have. So, it came as a big surprise to me when she said that, when they got married, my dad was going to be a teacher. He earned his degree in Biology with a minor in Music at the University of Wisconsin at Madison. My mother was two and a half years younger than my father so, at nineteen years of age, she dropped out of college to marry him and be a housewife – a decision that she always regretted. My dad graduated college in 1945 just as World War Two ended. He told me years later that he tried to enlist but was rejected by the military for having flat feet. Then, when the war ended, hoards of handsome young men in spiffy uniforms descended upon his life. He told me that he was afraid one of those sanguine war heroes would sweep my mother off of her feet right under his nose so, he quickly proposed to her before someone else did. When they said “I do” the deal was, my dad was going to get a job as a teacher. He was going to leave every morning for work and return every evening in time for dinner (my mother loved to cook).

But, teacher salaries being what they were in those days, my dad decided to take temporary work as a traveling salesman so he could quickly make enough money to buy furniture, appliances, and raise money for a down payment for a house. Did I say temporary? More importantly, did HE say temporary? As it worked out, my dad never left the road and my mother felt cheated out of the married life that she envisioned – at home raising a family with the man she loved. She told me that at one point she realized that she wasn't my father's mate, sharing their daily lives together as husband and wife... in reality she was his distant business partner, managing the business and our household on her own – and she didn't like it.

She told me that, even before I was born, she wanted to divorce my father. But she felt trapped. She didn't have her college degree and she had no marketable skills. All she knew how to do was be a housewife and mother. On several occasions she expressed her unhappiness and desire for change to my dad but he paid her no mind. She couldn't support herself sufficiently on her own so, he held all the power in the relationship.

Meanwhile, in spite of my father's general absence and my mother's mounting discontent, between 1948 and 1960 they managed to bring four boys and a girl into the world. I was number four boy.

So, during the 15 years leading up to my story, my mother had, for the most part, lived a life something like that of a single mom. My dad was the distant breadwinner, but she raised the five of us pretty much on her own. So, it's understandable that she was weary - and resentful of the fact that he had almost no  direct dealings with the complex dynamics of family life and had no daily household responsibilities - such as taking his kids to their music lessons...

As fate would have it, on one occasion, just before it was time for my mom and I to leave for my guitar lesson, my dad pulled into the driveway, returning home from one of his long solo business trips. Mom and I were about to open the door to leave when the door suddenly opened. With a blast of cold winter air my dad entered, wearing his dark, full-length wool coat and his “comrade hat.” My mom said, “Donald! You're home! Great! Just in time to take YOUR SON to his guitar lesson. It's in Newtown. He knows how to get there.” With that she turned and disappeared back into the house.

My dad stood there looking bewildered for a few seconds as I pushed past him and headed out the door for my mom's car. Once the situation sank in, he followed me out, closing the door behind him and said, “We'll take my car.”

“Ok,” I said as I changed direction. My dad's car was generally unfamiliar to me so I stood by the front passenger door and waited for him to tell me where he wanted me to stow my guitar case. Peering into the window I realized that this was my dad's domain – the little place where he lived most of his life. The Thompson family home annex, if you will.

My dad's car was a white 1972 Dodge Dart with a three-speed manual stick shift on the floor. It almost looked like a cool muscle car but I knew that it was about as unexciting as a car could be. My dad was a fan of Ralph Nader and, over time, had adopted a strictly utilitarian perspective about everything in life. Whatever gave him the best bang for the buck was where he laid his money down. Hence, he didn't buy a car because it reflected his personality type or because the color and style made a personal statement to the world, like most people do. Notions of personal style were utterly irrelevant to him. On the contrary, he bought the car only because of its efficiency and reliability. It had a stick shift, not because stick shifts on the floor were sporty and cool, but because manual transmissions were known to be more efficient than automatic transmissions and stick shifts on the floor had less linkage to the transmission, so they were more reliable. He had to order the car special from the dealer because it had the smallest possible engine he could get installed under the hood. Furthermore, the dashboard and control panels were covered with plastic dummy inserts in place of every optional bell and whistle that the car could've come with. He even tried to order the car with no radio but the dealer insisted, after much arguing, that the cheapest AM-only radio that Chrysler offered was standard equipment and couldn't be removed and deducted from the sale price.

Another good example of my dad's strict utilitarianism was his aforementioned “comrade hat” that  he preferred to wear in the winter. It was a black, faux leather, faux fur-lined hat with a front flap that turned up over his forehead, exposing a rectangular section of faux fur. It had a corresponding faux-leather flap that hung down in the rear to cover the back of his neck. It also had rounded faux fur-lined faux leather flaps that hung down over his ears like built-in ear muffs, and a chin strap that hung down and whipped around when he moved because he always left it unbuckled. It looked like something that a World War One Russian soldier would've worn on a cold day in Siberia. No one else I've ever known before or since ever wore a hat like that. I mean, in 1973 the Cold War was on and that hat literally made him look like a communist sympathizer or a KGB agent. On more than one occasion I heard my mother ask him why he wore that terrible hat. His answer - “It's the warmest hat I ever owned. I don't care what it makes me look like. It keeps my head warm.” On one occasion, right in front of him, my mother turned to me and said, “I hate that hat!” My dad didn't respond. My mother, you see, had a strong sense of personal style and enjoyed dressing elegantly in ways that reflected her personality and mood. My dad's growing utter disregard for such things troubled her so that, as their marriage unfolded, she increasingly didn't care to be seen in public with him.

Back to the story...

“Just find a spot for it in the back,” my dad said as he pulled open the driver's door. I opened the rear passenger door. The backseat was cluttered with boxes and suitcases but I was able to float my guitar case on top of them. After my dad cleared away a bunch of maps and various items from the front passenger seat, I slipped into the car and buckled my seatbelt. As my dad started the car, I looked around. There were several crinkled up Burger King sandwich wrappers and meal bags on the floor by my feet. Hanging from the dashboard was a complex aftermarket automobile storage facility with an  array of pockets, zippers, snaps, flaps, and cupholders. There were several prescription and non-prescription pill bottles stored in it. One of the cupholders held an empty soda cup that said “Burger King” on it. In the center of the steering wheel, taped to the horn, was a 3x5 card that said “REMAIN CALM” in my dad's inimitable black felt tip handwriting. I eyed the note and tried for a minute to comprehend, once again, what my dad's life on the road was like. I stirred the pile of Burger King wrappers with my feet and said, “What's with all the Burger King wrappers?” “I love Whoppers,” he responded as he shifted into reverse, looked to the rear, and eased the car down the driveway into the street.. “The way they flame-broil them... mmmm. I love them. I could eat them every day.” Considering the pile of Whopper wrappers on the floor, I was convinced that he did just that, but I didn't say anything. I started wondering how long a man could live on a steady diet of Whoppers...?

At the end of our driveway he turned left instead of  to the right like my mom and I always did when starting the trek to Newtown. “You're going the wrong way,” I protested. “I know how to get there,” he said evenly. My dad shifted into first gear and let out the clutch. The car lurched forward and we were on our way. Then, unexpectedly, after we were traveling about 5 miles per hour, he skipped second gear and shifted the transmission directly into third gear. The car sputtered for a moment, then the whole vehicle shook, rattled, and groaned as the engine struggled to move the car forward in third gear at such a slow speed. Even though I didn't drive, I immediately knew that his choice of gears was a bad one and that the car was probably suffering unnecessary wear and tear. “Why did you skip second gear?” I asked. “Third gear is the most fuel efficient,” he said flatly. He glanced at me and qualified, “That's where I get the best gas mileage,” as though any idiot should know that and understand what he was doing – and agree with it. “I think the car's going to shake to pieces,” I said. “That can't be good for the engine and transmission.” He didn't respond.

My dad headed in the direction of Yardley instead of Langhorne. I knew we could get there that way, but it was the long way and I was concerned we were going to arrive late, but I didn't say anything. I was too busy worrying about my dad's engine and transmission. He drove as though he had no second gear! Whenever we stopped for a traffic light or a stop sign he clutched the car into motion using first gear and then immediately dropped the shifter into third gear. So, we rattled, groaned, and shook our way to Newtown, only cruising smoothly when we went faster than thirty miles per hour. I watched my dad's face as he drove us along in silence. His brow, nose, mouth, and stubbly chin protruding out from the front of that comrade hat. I thought maybe he'd ask me about school, or what I was learning at guitar lessons, or what I'd been doing with myself, but he just drove in silence. Maybe he was tired after a long day of driving...?

We finally came in range of Newtown when we turned a corner onto Newtown-Yardley Road. As our car slowly sputtered, groaned, and bucked it's way up to speed my dad suddenly spoke up. “I hate people who do that!” He was looking into his rear-view mirror with a scowl. I turned around to look. There was a large, cross-looking  man in a big car tailgating us. “I'll fix him,” said my dad. With that he let his foot off of the accelerator enough to cause our car to slow down. The man reacted by tailgating us even closer. “Have it your way, ...at Burger King...” my dad sang, off-pitch, as we continued to decelerate. The man began honking his horn and flashing his headlights. “Excuse me, dear heart. Do you have a problem?” my dad asked in a saccharine tone. Then he slowed our car down even more. I looked around and realized we were in a no-passing zone. I looked back. The man was clearly angry. Our eyes met and he started screaming something I couldn't hear and waving his right arm wildly around. I broke eye contact and turned back around.

Suddenly the man steered his car over the double yellow line into the opposing lane and accelerated. “You f^(king a$$#ole!” my dad shouted as he realized what the man was doing. My gaze moved quickly down the road ahead to see if any cars were coming – none were. Then I looked at my dad in utter amazement. I had heard him use some minor-league curse words before but I never heard him curse like THAT! As the man pulled up next to our car he gave my dad the finger and mouthed the words that went with the gesture. “You son of a b!+ch!” My dad yelled back as the other car started to pull away. Then, to my surprise, my dad pressed the accelerator. Our car lurched forward and quickly matched the other car's speed, making it impossible for the man to get ahead of us and pull back into our lane. A look of panic came over the man's face. He leaned into his steering wheel and gunned his accelerator. My dad did the same, pushing the gas pedal all the way to the floor “My god!” I thought to myself. “We're drag-racing this guy!” I fell back in my seat, checked my seatbelt, and held on for dear life as the two cars raced down the road, going faster and faster. Grasping my arm rests, I kept watch down the road for oncoming cars. This situation could end in disaster! Fortunately, my dad's tiny engine was no match for the other man's big car. After a few terrifying moments of matching his ever-increasing speed the other man's car started to pull ahead. “I'LL EAT YOUR GUTS OUT!” my dad yelled as the man passed. My dad's engine screamed in protest as it reached it's performance limit. The other man's car sounded like a race car as it pulled further and further ahead.... and not a moment too soon! A couple of cars appeared in the distance, cruising toward us in the oncoming lane. “OH MY GOD, LOOK!” I screamed. “HE'S GOING TO HIT THEM HEAD-ON!!” Just as the words came out, my dad released the accelerator and the man cut back into our lane directly in front of us, missing hitting our front end by only inches! Just as quickly the oncoming cars whizzed by. The driver in the first oncoming car scowled at us as he went by.

The race over, my dad resumed normal speed. Now in front of us, the man shook his fist wildly and screamed something as he pulled away from us at high speed. “Man!” I  said. “That was too close!” My heart was pounding. My adrenaline was pumping. I closed my eyes and relaxed, melting back into my seat and letting go of my armrests. My dad went right back to driving like nothing had happened. “Wow,” I thought. “He must be an expert at this, or something.”

Just as it looked like the madness was all done, we rolled into Newtown and approached the traffic light at the corner of State Street. My relief quickly turned to apprehension as I realized the man in the car was stopped at the traffic light and we were pulling up directly behind him. “There's that b@$+ard again,” my dad said flatly. I could see the man observing us approach in his rear view mirror. There were two cars ahead of him waiting for the light to change. “Please turn green... please turn green,” I muttered to myself.

The light didn't turn green.

Just as we pulled up to a stop the man suddenly threw open his door and jumped out of his car! “OH NO!!” my dad cried. I was stunned! The man screamed like a crazed psycho-killer, his face contorted with rage, his arms outstretched in anticipation of tearing my dad to shreds as he lunged toward the driver's side of our car. “OH NO!!!” my dad yelled again, realizing he was the target. His arms and hands trembling, he threw the car into reverse just as another vehicle pulled up behind us. “WE'RE TRAPPED!!” I yelled. My dad hurriedly backed up a foot or so to get some clearance. Then he threw it into first gear, popped the clutch, and, tires screeching, steered left into the opposite lane! Still screaming like a loony on the loose, the man paused to consider how to react. It was just dumb luck that no cars were coming the other way. Tires still screeching, we roared to the left of the crazed, furious man. Now he was on my side of the car! He lunged toward me!! “AUGGGHHH!” I screamed, instinctively pressing my body back into my seat. Thankfully, by then we were going too fast for him get a hold of of my door handle. Not to be thwarted, though, as we blew by he screamed, grabbed our car's radio antennae, and tore it right out of our front right fender!!

If that wasn't enough, I then looked in horror as my dad shifted into second gear and accelerated down the wrong side of the road! I put my head in my arms, hunkered down, and closed my eyes as we entered the intersection at high speed... against the red light!! I don't know if it was luck or angels but we flew around the corner to the left onto State Street, cars skidding and honking all around us! Amazingly, we made it through without hitting anyone or anything! My dad dropped it into third gear and made his get-away down State Street as I looked behind us, watching to see if the light changed, and whether or not the man was following us. Suddenly my dad pulled to the right side of the road directly in front of Newtown School of Music. “GO! GO! GO! GO!...” he shouted continuously as I grappled my guitar case out of the back seat as quickly as I could and jumped out of the car. Screeching his tires, he took off down the road and careened around the corner of the nearest side street. Looking back down the road for our pursuer, I ran to the door of the school and got myself inside - out of sight of the road. Thankfully, I didn't have to sit in the front waiting area where I could be seen from the road through the large front window. Russ Faith was sitting in the lesson booth, noodling some cool jazz licks, waiting for me... I was five minutes late!

During my lesson I was very jittery and I kept looking through the little window in the lesson booth wall to see if the man had followed me into the school. I kept imagining that, while I was playing the guitar, my dad and his adversary were playing a dangerous, high-speed game of cat and mouse up and down the main streets, side streets, and alleyways of Newtown, running stop signs and red lights, leaving a trail of stunned pedestrians, skidding cars, and traffic snarls in their wake.

When my lesson was over I walked warily through the door and peered up and down the street before I let it close behind me. It was getting dark. I didn't see the man or his car. I wondered if my dad was dead on the side of the road somewhere with his car radio antennae wrapped around his neck... But he wasn't. A quick scan and I spotted his car idling in a parking spot nearby.

My guitar case stowed in the back once more, we pulled away at normal speed as if nothing had happened. My dad dropped the shifter into third gear and we sputtered, throbbed, and bucked down the road. This time my dad took the regular route home.

As the uneventful ride unfolded my dad drove with his usual silence and dead-pan expression. I wanted to ask him what happened after he dropped me off but somehow I understood, tacitly, that he didn't want to discuss it. I stared blankly out the passenger window watching the twilight world go by and thanking my lucky stars that I was still alive. I thought about how I used to wonder what life on the road was like for my dad. I looked over and saw the 3x5 card – REMAIN CALM. I decided that I now knew enough to hold me for a good long while.

During the rest of my dad's stay at home no mention was made of the Newtown-Yardley Road incident. After he left, though, my mom and I were sitting, talking at the kitchen table late one evening, as was our enduring habit until her untimely passing twenty-five years later. I told her the whole harrowing story. She sat and listened, speechless. When the story was over she sat there quietly for a few minutes, letting it sink in. Then she said, “Ya know, one of these days I'm finally going to get rid of your father's awful Russian hat!”

In those days I sometimes wondered if maybe I dreamed the Newtown-Yardley Road incident. It was crazy like a dream, and totally disconnected from my day to day life. What a strange, improbable event! For as long as my dad owned that 1972 Dodge Dart, though, every time I saw it I couldn't help but notice the rusty hole where the missing antennae had once been mounted on the front-right fender.

As I said earlier, my roadrageous dad never left the road. Meanwhile my mother found a new road. She went back to school, earned a nursing degree, started a career, divorced my father, and moved on. She eventually remarried – she found a fine gentleman who went to work early and came home every day in time for dinner (my mom loved to cook). They lived the rest of their lives together in stability and peace. It was a beautiful thing.

The End

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