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Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER NINE

“Big Dick’s Breakfast Revival”

We started the morning cleaning up broken glass from the window I broke the night before.  I don’t know why, but I picked up a piece, put it in my pocket, and still have it to this day.  Before leaving, Dad and I wandered over to the owners’ trailer and knocked on the door.  The wife opened the door and the scent of wet wildflowers gave way to bacon and eggs.

            “Howdy!” she said, obviously wide awake and ready to tackle another day.           

Dad fished his wallet from his pocket.  He pulled a twenty out and handed it to her.

            “I’m so sorry we were such a bother,” he said.  “Before leaving, I wanted to give you guys a little more for putting up with us.”

            “Hell, you ain’t gotta do that!” she said.

            “I do, though.  We kept the whole camp awake.”

            “Aw, don’t go worryin’ ‘bout that!” she said.  “That was the most excitement this place’s seen in a long, long time.”

            Just when I was starting to understand what people meant by Southern Hospitality, her husband yelled, “That them damn Yankees?!”  He poked his head out the door and looked us up and down; I thought, for some reason that he would kill us and cook us with his bacon.

            “Yep, that’s us,” Dad said.

            “You gonna stand there all mornin’ long, or come in for breakfast?” he said, surprising me.

            “We really need to get moving,” Dad said.

            “Hell, Hoss!  You ain’t goin’ far without a good breakfast.  We got plenty—get the family.“  Right before Dad was about to turn the offer down, the owner added, “It’s the least you can do for keeping the whole camp up all night with your racket.”

            He couldn’t say no to that.  They gave Dad his twenty back, even though he insisted they take it.  Dad sent me to get everyone.  When he saw Mom coming, carrying Lucky in her hands and smoking a cigarette, he said, “Dear.  You need to put that out and put Lucky in the car.”

            “With that broken window, he’ll get out,” she said, tossing her cigarette in the grass.  I walked over and snubbed it out before we had a repeat of the side of the road fire.

            The twins, who were looking forward to a marshmallow breakfast in the back of the car and not a hot meal at a stranger’s table said, “We’ll watch Lucky for you.” 

            The owner’s wife spoke up, smashing their hopes.  “It’s all right,” she said.  “He’s a cute little fella.  We don’t turn nothin’ down from the table; don’t matter if it’s man or beast.”

            “Beast is a fitting term,” Dad muttered under his breath as he held the door open for Mom.

            Introductions were made and it seemed Aunt Margie found a hillbilly home away from home, although I’m sure she missed the succulent taste of fresh squirrel for breakfast, killed and peeled that very morning.  Their names were Dick and Dixie (Dixie affectionately called her husband “Big Dick,” and it took everything for Dad and me to keep our composure).  Big Dick looked like he could break cinderblocks with his fists and bite nails in half.  Dixie was sticky and smelled like a sandbox. 

We stood around the table as Dixie set more places.  Dad told them where we were heading and why.  “That’s a big hole,” Big Dick said when Dad mentioned dumping Grandma’s ashes in the canyon.  “Best be careful you don’t go fallin’ in…would put a damper on your vacation.”  Dad chuckled, thinking Big Dick was making a joke, but he blushed when he realized Big Dick was being serious.  We sat down to eat.

            “Before we eat, I’d like you all to bow your heads in prayer,” Big Dick said.  “That’s how we do things around here.”

            Everyone bowed, except me.  Even Lucky looked down, but he wasn’t concerned with prayer—he was eyeing pieces of bacon he knew Mom would cram down his black hole of a throat once the meal started. 

            “Heavenly Father, we thank you for this meal we’re about to eat,” Big Dick said.

            I noticed Lucky writhing in Mom’s hands, struggling for freedom.  He didn’t like the prayer.

            “Please protect this family as they travel across this great country to scatter the mortal remains of one of your children in one of the prettiest places you ever created…”

            Lucky barked out loud, but Mom held his mouth shut between her thumb and forefinger.

            “And watch over Little Dick, who never made it from Dixie’s womb, but was still one of your miracles and something we’ll never forget.  Watch over him, Heavenly Father and make sure nuthin’ evil ever crosses our paths.”     

            Lucky bit Mom, startling us all!  It was no surprise when Lucky chewed a pair of shoes, furniture, or one of us, but he never bit Mom.  She looked hurt.

            “Lucky, no!” she said.  She realized she was interrupting Big Dick and said, “Sorry.”

            “No problem, Ma’am.”  He returned to his prayer.

            “Thank you for all you’ve given us, Heavenly Father.  But most of all—even more than giving us Little Dick—thank you for loving us enough to send your only son, Jesus Christ, to die on the cross for all us sinners.  We pray in Jesus’ name.  Amen.”

            With those words, Lucky started howling, his head thrown back and his tiny snout turned skyward like a wolf as he cried and yipped in doggie agony.

            “Lucky, stop!” Mom said.  She looked at Big Dick.  “I’m so sorry—he usually behaves.  I don’t know what’s getting into him.”

            “Maybe he’s been touched by the Lord,” Dixie said.  Lucky stopped baying and looked directly at her, startling everyone at the table.  They’d all see it with their own eyes—I was sure of it.  His eyes would glare red and I’d be vindicated, but before he could bark some more or show what evil lurked within, Mom gently pressed in on his molera, freezing him.  When everyone started filling their plates and Mom let go of his soft spot, Lucky looked directly at me and licked his jowls.   

            When the twins heard we were eating with Dixie and Big Dick, they returned to the Inferno for a bag of marshmallows; they shoved handfuls into their mouths, while everyone else dug into their food.  I pushed a piece of bacon around with my fork and pierced a fried egg, watching the yellow yolk spill over and consume the edge of a biscuit like the Blob.  Dad noticed I wasn’t eating.

“Not hungry?” he said.  I didn’t know if it was genuine concern about my appetite, or if it was his say of saying, “Please be polite and eat.”  I picked up a piece of bacon and took a bite.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

I was hungry, but I was more concerned and lost in my thoughts—about Lucky and about something Big Dick said during his prayer that didn’t seem to bother anyone else: the mention of “Little Dick,” the boy that never was.  I wanted to ask about him, but figured it wasn’t the best topic for breakfast. 

            “I’m sorry if the talk of Little Dick set you folks on edge,” Big Dick said with a mouthful of bacon, eggs, and biscuits and gravy.  It was like he was reading my mind.  “Dixie here carried him a little over two months, we reckon, but it wasn’t meant to be.  He’s the closest thing to a child we ever had, so we always include him in our prayers.”

            “I understand,” Dad said.  Before thinking, he added, “Have you two thought about trying again?”  Mom kicked Dad beneath the table, but talking about Little Dick seemed almost therapeutic for Dixie and Big Dick.

            “We tried,” Dixie said, “ but Big Dick, here, had an accident with a circular saw and ain’t got the goods to be siring children no more.”  Guess he wasn’t “Big Dick” after all! 

I felt bad for the Dixie and Big Dick, but it was probably for the best Little Dick didn’t make it.  No one should have to endure such a nickname throughout life.  “Big Dick,” most guys could happily live with, but “Little Dick?” Perhaps he heard the name he was destined for while still in the womb and decided to make a break while he could!

            Eating with Dixie and Big Dick was more uncomfortable than eating breakfast at home.  There, I was at least used to things: Dad talking to me, the twins talking to each other, and Mom talking with Lucky.  There was order in our dysfunction.  But eating with Dixie and Big Dick made me tense for some reason, and that tension grew when a huge Saint Bernard entered the room.  It walked right up to me and put it’s wet jowls in my lap, soaking my shorts in drool.

            “Oh, that’s Susan,” Dixie said.  “Don’t mind her.”

            “Susan.  That’s an interesting name for a dog,” Dad said.

            “Yeah, I named her after my sister,” Dixie said.  “She’s a big bitch, too!”  Gravy was collecting in the corners of Dixie’s mouth—I’m guessing she never grasped the concept of napkins. 

            I was used to Lucky being around the table, but he was always in Mom’s lap, not mine.  Susan’s head alone weighed more than several Luckys put together.  She kept drooling in my lap and I figured she wanted some food.

            “Is it okay if I give her a piece of bacon?” I said.

            “You can if you want,” Big Dick said, “but I don’t think that’s what she’s after. 

            I noticed Susan rubbing the base of her tail against the leg of the table—she was in heat!  Lucky could tell she was in heat, too—he began squirming in Mom’s hands even harder than during the prayer.  He was never neutered and the thought of nailing something thirty times his weight was too much for Mom to handle; he broke free from her grip and mounted Susan right there at the breakfast table!

            “Lucky, no!” Dad said.

            “Oh, let the little fella have his fun!” Big Dick said.  “He ain’t hurtin’ nothin’ and if his aim is true, we could end up with some of the funniest looking puppies this side of the South.”

            Mom and Dixie didn’t want to watch doggie porn while eating breakfast, though; Mom grabbed Lucky off the rear of Susan and shoved a piece of bacon in his face to get his attention.  Dixie was thinking along the same lines—she took her plate, said, “Here, Susan!” and tossed the food out the front door.  The big dog charged outside and ate bacon and eggs in the grass—Dixie kept her biscuits, though.

            “Well, that takes care of that,” Dixie said.  “Sorry ‘bout that.”

            “It’s all right,” Dad said.  He was mopping up the crumbs of his breakfast with a piece of a biscuit, already. 

            It wasn’t all right with me, though.  Before our very eyes, a dog the size of rolled up socks fornicated with a beast the size of a garbage can while we were eating breakfast, and no one but me seemed bothered by it, but me.  I had to get away, if only for a minute.  “Excuse me,” I said looking at Dixie.  “Where is your bathroom?”

            She pointed beyond the living room.  “Just go down that hall and you’ll see it on the left, sweetie.”  There was something about the way she called me sweetie, as though—in her mind—I was filling in for the son she would never have.     

I had found in my thirteen years that the only place one could truly get any privacy and be alone with their thoughts was the bathroom.  It’s that one place where no one wants your attention, that one place where you can catch your breath and engage in something universally natural.  Most times I went to the bathroom at home, I didn’t have to relieve myself…I just sat on the toilet with my pants still up and thought about things, but that morning I really had to go.  I dropped my pants, sat down, and let loose.  When I looked up, I saw Jesus.

            Dixie and Big Dick’s trailer was full of Jesus art.  Jesus on clocks, painted on wood, and Dixie was obviously a big fan of Jesus paint-by-numbers kits.  Situated on the wall directly across from the toilet—at eye level as you sat there on the throne—was one of the most bloody, pained Jesus images I ever saw!  I think it was another paint by numbers, but Dixie was obviously struck by an artistic urge while painting it, or perhaps she just needed to finish off a tube of red paint.  It was a close up of him on the cross, head cocked to the side in anguish, his eyes rolling back in his head.  Even though his eyes were rolled back and looking skyward, they stared right at me.  I leaned as far to the right as I could, then as far to the left and his eyes followed me.  There was no way I could finish crapping with Christ watching me!

            I had a thing about going to the bathroom with pictures around.  I couldn’t stand it when Mom left one of her fashion magazines on the bathroom floor at home and I’d lean forward to wipe my butt and see Brooke Shields staring up at me from the cover of Vogue, or Isabella Rossellini watching me from a Cosmopolitan.  It was bad enough having models staring at you in that most vulnerable position, but the Son of God in agony was even worse!  I closed my eyes, but just knowing the picture was there, I still couldn’t go.  All I could do was wipe and ask Dad to stop when we hit the road, so I could finish what I had started.

            When I reached for the toilet paper, all I felt was an empty cardboard roll!  Either Dixie or Big Dick—I’m guessing Big Dick—didn’t restock after their last drop.  The cabinets where I guessed they stored the toilet paper were out of immediate reach, so I rummaged through the garbage can beside the toilet, hoping to find a clean tissue.  All I found were pieces of tissue someone had blow their nose into, so I had to make it to the cabinets (I wasn’t about to call out, asking for another roll in a stranger’s house).

            I clenched my cheeks together and scuffled over to the sink with my pants down around my ankles.  When I opened the cabinet beneath the sink, I stumbled upon something that froze me in my tracks.  There, beneath the bathroom sink, was Little Dick!

            He was in a jar.  To the uninitiated, identifying the jar’s contents would have been impossible, but after years of attending sideshows with Dad, I was an expert at identifying things in jars full of murky fluid: from pickled alligator fetuses, to two-headed babies, I had seen it all.  Little Dick wasn’t that big, maybe three inches long, or so.  He was shaped more like a question mark than the usual fetal comma shape, and true, I couldn’t make out any discernable features—no eyes, little fingers, or even limbs—but with Big Dick and Dixie, a genetic mistake was bound to happen. 

The cabinet beneath the sink was a shrine to their “only son.”  There were glass, Jesus prayer candles all around the jar.  The rims of the candles were blackened by soot, a clear sign they were used regularly.  Mom owned similar candles; only she lit them before playing bingo, for luck.  It gave me the creeps, thinking about Dixie and Big Dick keeping a fetus in a jar in their bathroom.  I could see them putting a ceremonial bath mat on the floor, kneeling before the cabinet, and communing with Little Dick in a candlelit bathroom.  It was too much.  Maybe Dixie’s miscarriage occurred in that very room, maybe right in the very toilet I sat on minutes before!  Maybe that bathroom was all Little Dick ever knew.

            BANG! BANG! BANG!

            Someone was knocking on the door!  They must have somehow known I was looking at their only son! 

            “Hey, partner!” I heard Big Dick say.  “I just remembered there ain’t no buttwipe in there.”  The door opened and I saw Big Dick’s hand poke through the opening, holding a bunch of paper towels.

            “This’ll have to do.  Don’t use a mess, or the commode’ll overflow.”

            I quietly made my way back toward the toilet.  If he poked his head in and saw me looking at Little Dick—if he saw I had found their little secret—there’s no telling what he’d have done.  I’d never live it down from Mom, hearing about going through other people’s stuff, even though she was the queen of the bathroom cabinet peek, seeing what kinds of toothpastes, shaving creams, and medicines friends and relatives used. 

            “You okay?” Big Dick said.  The door started opening.

            “Fine,” I said when I got closer to the toilet.  I grabbed the paper towels from his hand and pushed the door shut.  “Thank you.” 

After sitting back down on the toilet and wiping, I went to the sink and washed my hands.  I took one last look at Little Dick in the jar before closing the cabinet doors and letting him rest in peace.

            When I made it back to the table, Dad was drinking coffee and talking with Big Dick and Dixie.  “So what other big stops you have planned ‘sides the canyon?” Big Dick said to Dad.

            “We’re going to Mammoth Cave and Graceland.”

            “Nice places,” Big Dick said, picking his teeth with his fork.  “Graceland—ya don’t say?  So you’ll be going through Arkansas on your way to the canyon, huh?” 

            “Yes,” Dad said, wondering what Big Dick was getting at.  Was he going to ask for some strange favor to make up for us keeping the campsite awake all night?  “Why?” Dad added.

            “I got a stop I think y’all’ll love: Clyde McAllister’s Gator Village and Civil War Memorial,” he said, proudly.  “My brother owns it—he’ll give you a discount if you tell him I sentcha.”

            Dad’s eyes lit up—he lived for side of the road reptile farms.  He knew he’d be able to score alligator skin belts, T-shirts with cartoon alligators on them, and maybe even get a picture of me petting one of the scaly beasts.

“Where’s your brother’s place?”

“You head west outta Memphis after hitting Graceland…hour or so down the road.  Can’t miss the signs.  You don’t wanna miss it—he’s got quite a show going.  He’s got a gator that leaps clear outta its tank and snatches broiler chickens off a stick!  Betcha don’t get to see that back home, huh?”

            “No, we sure don’t!” Dad said.  Leaping gators were far better than diving horses in my old man’s order of cheesy attractions. 

            Mom was ready to hit the road.  She looked at Dad and said, “Well, we really appreciate breakfast, but we better get moving.”  Big Dick and Dixie stood up and started heading for the door.  Dad lagged behind a moment and I noticed him slide a twenty beneath his plate. 

            When we all went out front, Lucky caught a whiff of Susan and started fighting again, but Mom wasn’t about to let him sire puppies with a “hillbilly bitch-dog,” as she put it.  She pressed the molera button and made her way to the car.  Dad stopped and stretched, arching his back in an ecstatic moment brought on by a big country breakfast.  It was so good, he let loose a loud belch.

“Excuse me!” he said, embarrassed

“No problem,” Big Dick said, patting his belly.  “Better just hope it’s indigestion and not something worse, though.”

Dad looked at him, knowing he was going to say something more. 

“I had me some stomach distress a year ago and thought it was nuthin’.  Next

thing you know, I’m flat on my back in the hospital getting my appendix cut out.”  He pulled up his shirt, revealing a scar on the right side of his gut.  “Got it in a jar under the sink in the bathroom if you wanna see it?” 

Mom heard Big Dick’s offer and piped in with, “No thank you—that’s okay!” before Dad could say “yes!” and ask if he could take a picture.  We said our final thank yous and goodbyes, climbed into the Inferno, and were on the road again.

* * *

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Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“A Breath of Fresh Air”

            We drove until it started getting dark, then Dad handed me a map.

            “Hey, Buddy, see if you can find a campsite on there for us.  They should be marked.”

            I loved maps; I still do.  I’m guessing I got it from Dad.  I could sit in a room with an atlas and spend the entire day tracing routes all around the world with my fingertips and imagining what each place was like.  I could look at Italy and try finding places relatives talked about.  I could imagine whole stories about Dad’s ancestors in Ireland.  Places I might never see, I could at least look at and pretend I was there.

I looked at the map of America and saw how far we had traveled—we would have made better time had we not had so many problems.  I found the closest campsite on the map.  “There’s a place to stop about twenty-five miles ahead,” I said. 

            Mom was happy.  “Good, I’m ready for a cigarette!”

            The twins were happy, too.  “Goody!  We can roast marshmallows!”

            With the windows down to air out the smell of the burned carpet, and I rested my chin on the door and let the wind blow in my face.  Even back then, as much as my family drove me nuts, I appreciated those moments: the windows down, no one talking, and the sound of the tires racing along the pavement.  It was easy to lose yourself in the moment—even in a packed car there was a sense of isolation.  It only lasted a few minutes at most, but for those few minutes, there wasn’t a care in the world.  We made it to the campground in time to watch the sun set.

            Half the campground was full of RVs, and the rest of the area was full of four-bed canvas army tents.  Mom hated the thought of sleeping in tents, it reminded her of a time in Yellowstone when a bear decided all the sugar Mom and the twins left lying about camp was a fitting late-night snack.  The campground was torn apart, but our tent was spared.  Still, Mom couldn’t shake the thought.  Even if she had a tent pitched in the middle of Time’s Square—in her mind—a bear would somehow show up.

            “I’m not sleeping in a tent, James!” 

            “You can sleep in the car,” Dad said, “but you’re not smoking.”

            She looked at the Inferno, then the tents.  “Okay, I’ll take the tent,” she said, “but if any bears mess with me, James, you’re taking me home.”

            “I can assure you, Mary, no bears are going to mess with you.”

            He looked at me and said, “Let’s go find the owners—the rest of you wait here a sec.”

            We went to the owners’ trailer.  A husband and wife team, who were probably first cousins, sat outside under a canopy, sipping iced tea and watching a television sitting on an old card table. 

            “Howdy!  Can I help ya?” the man said.

            “Hi.  Yes,” Dad said.  “We need a couple tents for the night.

            “How many?”

            “Two should do.” 

            “That’ll be twenty-four dollars.”

Dad handed him some money and said, “Keep the change.”

            “Thank y’all,” the owner said, pointing to a pair of tents.  “Y’all take those two and have a nice evenin’.”

            His wife nudged him.

            “Oh yeah,” he added.  “With it bein’ so dry and all, we ask that you don’t start no campfires.”

            “No problem,” Dad said. 

            We walked back to the car, where the twins had a bag of marshmallows ready.

            “Daddy, can we roast marshmallows?”

            “I’m sorry, guys.  They aren’t allowing fires right now, so you’ll have to wait.  Maybe next time.”

            “Booooo!!!!”

            Dad pointed to the tents and said, “Those two are ours.”  The twins stomped off to one.

            Mom handed Aunt Margie her evening tobacco ration and said, “That should tide you over for the night.”

            “Thanky,” Aunt Margie said.  She looked around uncomfortably, before finally saying, “So who gets Maw?”

            “Huh?” Mom said.

            “Maw’s ashes.  We can’t just leave ‘em in the car.  What if someone done stealed it?”

            “No one’s stealing that ugly car,” Mom said, looking at Dad.  She wasn’t going to let him forget how much she hated the Inferno.  “I’ll take care of the ashes.”

            “I wanna keep them.”

            “They’ll be safe with me, Marge,” Mom said.

            “I want them.  You’ve had them all this time.”

            “There’s a reason for that.  Mom liked me best and she wanted me to hold onto her.”

            “Maw didn’t like you best!  She liked me best!”

            “Daddy liked you best.  Mom liked me…”

            Seeing two grown women carrying on even worse than my siblings and me was a sad sight.  Within moments, their argument was reduced to, “Did not!—Did too!”  They wouldn’t give up and I could tell it was really bothering Dad, who normally let things like that roll off his back.  He was sweating and had the same distant look he had that morning, when he was changing the tire. 

            “Shut up!” Mom said to Aunt Margie.

            “You shut up!”

            “Both of you, shut up!!!” Dad shouted. 

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

            The Inferno’s horn went off and wouldn’t stop.  Dad rushed over and messed with it, but had no luck.

            BEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

            Other campers were coming out of their tents, looking to see what the problem was.  I wandered over to see if I could help.

            BEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

            Dad popped the hood.  People were getting annoyed; I saw the campsite’s owner standing up, looking our way.

            BEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

            Dad ripped some wires from the engine and the beeping finally stopped.  He was dripping with sweat.

            “Sorry about that, everybody!” he said to the campground.  “I don’t know what caused that, but it won’t happen again.”  He held up the wires as proof.  “You can go back to relaxing.”

            Mom and Aunt Margie weren’t through.  Mom headed toward the Inferno.

            “What are you doin’?” Aunt Margie said.  

            “Going to the car.  I forgot something.”

            “Yer gonna get Maw’s ashes is what yer doin’.”

            “She liked me best,” Mom said.

            I cut Aunt Margie off before they started again.

            “I’m sleeping in the car, tonight.  Grandma’s ashes will be safe with me.”

            “Oh…” they both said, disappointed.  I don’t know why I said it—I didn’t really want to sleep in the car, but I wanted them to stop arguing.  I felt a need to defend Grandma, and it did beat sleeping in a tent with Elvis and Olivia and struggling to breathe while Aunt Margie smoked.

            As they headed off toward their tents, I heard Mom say, “I give you cigarettes and this is how you treat me?” 

            Before they went their separate ways, Aunt Margie said, “Maw did so like me the best.”

            “Did not…”

            “Did too…”

            They finally disappeared from view as Dad closed the hood.  He stepped back, looked at the car, and sighed.

            “I’m really beginning to regret buying this car.”

            “It’s probably just dumb luck,” I said, even though I was thinking the same thing.

            “It’s weird,” he said.

            “What?”

            “It’s almost like the car is doing things on its own.  That’s crazy, though.”

            Now was the time to tell Dad what I wanted to tell him since the rest stop.  “Speaking of crazy…can I tell you something, Dad?”

            “Sure, Buddy.  Always.”

            “I think there’s something wrong with Lucky.”

            I thought Dad was going to laugh, but he held it back, realizing I was serious.  “We all know there’s something wrong with Lucky,” he said.

            “No, I mean really wrong.”

            “Is he sick?”

            I stepped away from the car and looked around, making sure no one could hear me.  “I think Lucky’s possessed.”

            “Possessed?  Like Exorcist possessed?” he said.

            “Yeah.”

            Dad searched for words.  “He’s a mean little guy—I’ll give you that.  But I don’t know if I’d go as far as saying he’s possessed.”

            I wasn’t going to give up.  “His eyes were red,” I said.

            “Red?”

            “Yeah.  Like your jackalope’s.”

            “Look, it’s been a rough day,” Dad said.  “You probably just need some sleep—I think we all do.  Sometimes an animal’s eyes catch the light on a weird angle and they look like they’re glowing.  We’re all pretty tired.  Get some rest, Buddy.  I’m sure things will be better tomorrow.”

            “I hope so.”  Maybe Dad was right, maybe I was overreacting and just seeing things, but I was definitely going to keep a better watch over Lucky and the things he did.

            Dad said goodnight, gave me a hug, then headed off toward the tent.  I slept well that night, with two exceptions.  First, when a raccoon wandered near Mom’s tent and she screamed, thinking a bear was attacking her.  She woke the entire camp.  While the tiny raccoon was a far cry from the ten thousand pound black bear with shark’s teeth and fiery eyes my mother was convinced would emerge from the woods and strip the flesh from her bones while she dreamed deeply about Elvis, raccoons—like bears—had a penchant for finding the gooey food wrappers my Mom left scattered around camp.   I guess she figured, since bears and raccoons are distantly related, screaming bloody murder was the safest bet.  I had to laugh.

The second time I was awakened wasn’t so funny…

*          *          *

            I was in the middle of a dream about opening a box that contained the secret of life, when I woke up choking!  I jolted upright, grasping at my throat while coughing and gasping for air!  The windows were rolled up and the doors were locked.  I tried the power locks to no avail, and then tried physically unlocking the door with my finger.  The car was trying to kill me!  It didn’t finish me off on the highway earlier that day, so it was trying again, now that it had me alone!

I banged on the windows and yelled for help, but no one heard me.  I jumped to the front seat and tried the horn, but it wasn’t working since Dad disconnected it.  I was on the verge of passing out when I remembered something: Grandma!  I grabbed the urn from the passenger seat and used it to break the driver’s window, waking the camp up for the second time that evening, and bothering them for the third.  Dad rushed to the Inferno.

            “What happened?!” he shouted.

            I was hanging out the window, struggling to catch my breath and fill my lungs with fresh air.  “The windows were up and I couldn’t breathe!” I said.  “The doors were locked, too.”

            Dad looked at the car—all the doors were unlocked and the windows were down (including the one that tried killing me when Mom refused to crack her window while smoking).  He opened the driver’s side door and I got out, clutching the urn in my arms.

            “What’s that?” he said.

            “Grandma.  I used her urn to break the window.”

            He felt my forehead as Mom, Aunt Margie, and the twins came out of their tents to see what was happening.

            “What’s happening?” Mom said.

            “Nothing.  Everything’s all right,” Dad said.  “Go back to sleep.”  He checked out the car.

            “All the doors are unlocked and the windows the windows are down, Buddy.”

            “I’m not lying!” I said.  “Everything really was closed and locked up, Dad.  Don’t you believe me?”

            He struggled to pick me up and set me on the hood.  “It’s not that I don’t believe you, bud.  I know sometimes when we wake up on a trip we can forget where we are.  I’m not saying things weren’t locked—I’m just saying I have a hard time believing they were when everything’s wide open right now.”

            “I also know you wouldn’t just break a window without reason.  It could have been a bad dream.  You could have been hyperventilating.  What’s important is you’re okay now.”

            He gave me a hug and said, “How ‘bout I go get my sleeping bag and we can both sleep outside?  That sound good?”

            “Yeah.”

            “And hey—I won’t have to listen to your mother’s snoring all night!” he said, laughing.

             Dad may have been right about everything—maybe it was just a bad dream; maybe it was just a faulty window motor in the car door that got me earlier that day; and maybe Lucky’s eyes were just a strange reflection, but I wasn’t buying it.  As he went to gather his things, I looked at the Inferno and said, “I know what you are, you son of a bitch.”  I swear it growled back at me.

            Dad came back and we set up camp away from the car, beneath the stars.  Dad took my mind off the Inferno by pointing out constellations I didn’t know.  He showed me how to spot Aquarius, Cygnus, and Pegasus, and told me the mythology behind each one.  He stared at the stars and said, “You know, there was a time that’s all people had to go by.  There was a time things weren’t all plotted out on maps.”

            His eyes sparkled beneath the crescent moon—they were welling up with tears.  Dad could look at the sky and get emotional.  Staring up at the vastness of space and all the possibility of what’s out there made him feel something I wouldn’t experience until finally seeing the Grand Canyon; the feeling that there are simply things much bigger than us—so hard to fathom—that we can only stare in awe. 

If I had three wishes at that very moment they would have been, one: that the Inferno and Lucky stopped doing whatever it was they were doing and left us alone.  Two: that my family could function like a real family, if only for a few days.  And three: that Dad could have traveled back to a time when stars were maps and there was still untainted land left to explore.  That’s what he lived for. 

            We chatted about the stars a little longer until he finally dozed off, dreaming about uncharted territories, I’m sure.  I couldn’t sleep; I stayed awake and stared at the car.  I knew it was a matter of time before it did something really bad, or until my family would finally see that I wasn’t nuts in thinking it was possessed.  I only knew I wasn’t going to be near the car alone anymore.  After almost being choked to death, I didn’t even want to be in it with five other people.

            I held Grandma’s urn like a teddy bear, thankful I was able to get to it before the Inferno got to me.  There was something comforting about having Grandma with us.  No matter how frightened I was, I felt like nothing would truly be able to hurt me as long as she was around. I kissed the urn, whispered, “Thanks Grandma,” and fell fast asleep.

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

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Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Ring of Fire”

            “Doesn’t this crap car have air conditioning?” Mom said.  We weren’t even two miles from Aunt Margie’s and already she was complaining. 

            “Yes,” Dad said.  “The AC is on, dear.”

            “Why is it so hot then?” 

Dad waved his hand in front of the air conditioning vent.  “Feels fine to me.”

“Well then maybe it’s just my side,” Mom said, trying to figure out how to crank the AC so it would be colder.  She couldn’t figure out which lever controlled the temperature, so she lit a cigarette instead.

“Can I have one of those?” Aunt Margie said.  Mom pulled another cigarette from the pack, lit it using the one she just started, then passed it back to her sister.  The car filled with smoke.

“You two need to crack the windows if you’re both smoking in the car,” Dad said.  Mom ignored him—Aunt Margie looked for the window handle.  She had never been in a car with electric windows (she may have not even known they existed), so I showed her how things worked, and she cracked her window.

“Put that window back up, Marge!  It’s a million degrees outside!” Mom said.  She complained about the heat in the dead of winter, and every summer we were all constantly reminded how the heat would one day be the death of her.

“Mary, please crack your window,” Dad said.  “I don’t mind if you smoke in the car, but it’s not fair for those of us who don’t smoke to have to inhale that—“

“Not fair?!” she interrupted.  “I’ll tell you what’s not fair, James!  Packing me into a steaming hot car with shitty air conditioning and then telling me I can’t smoke.  It calms my nerves.  If we roll down the windows—even a little—I’ll melt!”  With all the makeup she plastered on her face each morning, maybe there was some truth to that statement.  The woman’s face was like a kid’s birthday cake: colorful, soft, and gooey.  I had seen her makeup run on really hot days back home—she looked like a plastic clown doll melting in a fire.  But still, I had to agree with Dad—it was not fair to expect us to inhale her smoke, just because she was uncomfortable. 

When Dad gave in and rolled Aunt Margie’s window up from the master control on the driver’s door (she thought it was magic!), I rolled my window all the way down and hung my head out, inhaling the fresh air.

“You roll that window up right now, Michael!” Mom said.  I kept my head outside, though.

“Now, young man!” she shouted. 

“No!  I can’t stand the smell of your cigarettes!” I yelled back.  Standing up to her that morning while trying to pack Elvis and Olivia had given me new-found courage, and I wasn’t going to let her win this time, either.

“I don’t care,” she said.  “A truck can come by and take your head off!  What do you think about that?  Do you want people looking at you and saying, ‘Oh, look!  There’s that little boy without the head!’  Think what they’ll say about me!”

Mom made everything about her.  Had a truck really taken my head off, she’d definitely mourn, but she would also figure out a way to turn the spotlight on herself.  I can hear it now: “I tried warning him, but he didn’t listen.  Had he only listened.  I guess I wasn’t a good mother—I guess I fell short on my responsibilities.  Oh woe is me…”  She might even evoke pity from strangers, but those who truly know her would be thinking, “He had you as a mother?  No wonder the boy stuck his head out the window to be chopped off by a passing truck.  I’d have done the same…”

Mom wasn’t about to be outdone.  “Well fine, then,” she said.  She cracked her window and flicked her ashes right into my face.  I went to pull my head back in, but couldn’t—the window had rolled up to my neck and was getting tighter!  I screamed; not just a little yell, but a blood-curdling, terrified scream…then I could scream no more. 

I couldn’t breathe—I couldn’t fill my lungs with enough air to force another cry for help.  I thought Elvis must have climbed over the seat and got hold of Dad’s master controls and rolled the window up on my neck as a joke, but I could hear Mom and Dad yelling from inside.  This was clearly serious stuff—no joke at all!

            “James, roll the window down!”  Mom was as terrified as I was.  In one way, it was reassuring because she really did care about us, but on the other hand, it scared me even more because when you’re a kid and an adult is afraid of something scaring you, you know it’s serious.

            “I’m trying!” Dad yelled.  His voice cracked in panic and I knew that was even worse than Mom losing it.  “It won’t roll down!” 

I gazed down and saw the lines on the highway racing by.  I tried taking a breath, but had no luck.  Everything started to fade in and out.  I felt Aunt Margie pulling on my legs—she thought she was helping, but it only made it harder to breathe!  I tried shouting, “Stop!” but couldn’t generate the energy.

            Dad pulled to the shoulder and eased the Inferno to a gentle stop.  The next moments of my life passed by in flashes.  I saw Mom open her door and leap from the passenger seat.  She set Lucky on the roof and came toward me.  Behind her, I saw Dad slide across the hood in slow motion, like a cop from a bad TV show racing to someone’s aid.  Then things went black. 

            During the next flash, I heard Mom shouting, “Lucky, no!” as he sat on the roof licking my ear.  He dug inside with his tongue, as though he were hoping to dig deep enough to taste brain.  I saw Dad’s face—I never saw him look more frightened in my life, not even the time the twins thought it would be funny to lay in the middle of the street like they had been run over (complete with fake blood on their heads), right as Dad came home from work.  I suppose Elvis’s uncontained laughter as Dad approached, shaking his chunky little body, could have been mistaken for convulsing at a distance.  For a brief moment, the look of horror on Dad’s face was unmatched only by the look of anger when he realized he’d been had by his two youngest children.  But I wasn’t faking a thing; I was in the process of dying right before my family’s eyes.

            When I awoke, I was lying on the side of the highway with Mom, Dad, and Aunt Margie huddled over me—the twins stayed in the back of the Inferno, no doubt disappointed to see me breathing on my own.  Lucky stood on my chest, staring.  “Are you okay, Buddy?” Dad said.  I inhaled and coughed; few things in my life were as satisfying as that breath.  Air rushed into my lungs, carrying oxygen to my head and everything came into focus.  I was alive!

            “Give him room!” Mom said as I sat up.

            “What happened?”

            Dad told me how the window rolled up on my neck and it wouldn’t go down.  Mom tried breaking the window, but had no luck; Dad stopped her repeated attempts, worried if the window broke, a shard would cut my jugular vein and not only would I be suffocating, but also bleeding to death.  The two grabbed the window on either side of my head and pulled down with all their strength, lowering the window just enough that Aunt Margie could pull my head free.

            I just knew it was the car—it was out to kill me.  First the salesman; there was just something wrong about him.  From the way he dressed, to the way he moved and talked…I was convinced there was a lot more to him than just another greasy, used car salesman out to make a quick buck, selling lemons to unsuspecting customers.  Then Lucky’s eyes glowing red.  In Lucky’s long list of ailments and strange habits, red eyes were not in his repertoire.  And finally the window rolling up on my neck—it was clear the car was out to get me!  It was all making sense.     

             Then I heard Dad say, “The motor in the door’s stuck.  Your window won’t go up or down.”  He had my door open and was messing with the window controls.  “Not an uncommon thing with electric setups like this.”  Leave it to Dad to put a dent in my theory.

            I got to my feet and now that I was all right, Mom had to say it.  “See, I told you to keep your head inside the car and you didn’t listen.  See what happens when you don’t listen, Michael?”

            I climbed into the car and scooted over behind Dad, where I sat the rest of the trip, wanting to be as far from that door as possible.

*          *           *

            A few miles down the road, I heard the twins in the back rummaging through a bag of marshmallows.  I remembered how hungry I was, now that I was no longer subjected to the sight of toothless hillbillies eating tree rodents.  Dad must have been reading my mind.

            “I sure could go for a sandwich,” he said.  “How about you, Michael?”

            “That sounds great!”

            The twins, mouths stuffed with marshmallows, said, “We’re hungry, too!”

            “I thought y’all wasn’t hungry?  There was plenty of food back at the house y’all passed on,” Aunt Margie said.

            Dad tried sparing her feelings.  “Yeah, and it all looked so good, too, Margie.  Hated passing it by, but I wasn’t hungry until we started driving again.  Something about the open road that hits your stomach, right guys?”

            “Right!” we said.

            “I shoulda brung some squirrel, or somethin’.”

            “Really is too bad you didn’t,” Dad said, holding back laughter.  He didn’t dare make eye contact with me in the rearview mirror.  If we looked at each other when one of us was about to crack up, that was it.  “I was just thinking a fried squirrel sandwich sure would hit the spot right about now, but it looks like we’re stuck with baloney.  Want to grab some sandwiches from the cooler, Michael?”

            “Sure.”  I reached back over the seat, careful not to bump my arm on Aunt Margie’s cigarette, which she held at arm’s length near Mom’s window, as though it bothered her as much as it bothered me.  Dad insisted Mom crack her window if they were going to smoke.

I grabbed a sandwich for Dad, my Mom, and me.  The ice in the cooler had melted, so the sandwiches floated around like little cellophane baloney boats.  I asked Aunt Margie if she wanted one, but she rubbed her belly and said, “Nope, I’m still full.”  I opened my sandwich and started eating around the soggy parts.

            “What about us?” the twins said.

            “Get them yourselves,” I said.  “The cooler’s back there with you.”

            They weren’t satisfied with that reply—they were out to get someone on their side and make an issue of things.

            “Mom!  Michael didn’t get us any sandwiches!”

            “Michael, get your brother and sister something to eat,” she said with a mouth full of white bread, processed meat, and mayo.  She let Lucky take a bite directly from her sandwich as she swallowed and took a drag from her cigarette.

            I fished two more sandwiches from the cooler and handed them to the twins.

            “We’re not hungry anymore!” Elvis said.

            Olivia followed up with, “Yeah, looking at your face ruined our appetite!”

            “Let’s not argue,” Dad said.

            “We’re not arguing,” the twins said.  “We’re just not hungry anymore.”

            They handed their sandwiches back to me and Olivia said, “Put these back, Dummy.”

            “You put them back!”

            They both shouted, “MOM!!!”

            Mom had had enough.  She was enjoying her sandwich, her cigarette, and her dog and was not about to let us ruin the moment. 

            “All of youse, shut up!” she bellowed.  “Don’t make me tell your father to pull this piss-poor excuse for a car over!”

            Suddenly, as if the car heard her, it veered out of control.  Dad fought the steering wheel, struggling to get the upper hand as we skidded about the interstate.  He finally regained control and pulled over.  We were all terrified, except Dad, who remained calm and collected throughout the ordeal.  He stepped from the Inferno and shook his head as he looked at the driver’s side front tire.

            “Goddamnit…”

            “Don’t swear at God, Daddy,” Olivia said.

            “I’m not swearing at God,” he said.  “I’m asking him to damn this car to hell.  There’s a big difference.”

            “What’s wrong?” Mom said, knowing full well what the problem was.

            “Flat tire.”

            “Another one?!”

            “We must have hit something in the road.”

            “Well fix it!”

            “I can’t,” he said.  “I used the spare this morning.  I’ll have to head up the road and buy a tire, somewhere.”

            He shielded his eyes from the sun with his hand, looking ahead.  “It looks like there’s an exit up a ways—I shouldn’t be too long.”

            He pulled the flat tire he changed earlier from the back of the car and carried it along the shoulder.

            “Don’t be too long,” Mom said, proving she didn’t hear a word he said.

            We watched him make his way along the highway until we didn’t see him anymore; then the twins decided to mess with me.

            “Daddy swore at God,” Olivia said to me.

            “Shut up.”

            “You shut up!” Elvis said. 

            “You’re both so stupid,” I said.  “There is no God.”

            “Mommy, Michael says there’s no God!”  Olivia started with the fake tears.

            “Don’t listen to your brother,” Mom said.  “He’s gonna go to hell if he keeps that crap talk up.”  She turned around and gave me the look.  The look was meant to intimidate us, and I’ll admit, when I was younger, I would have preferred a beating with the sauce ladle over my mother’s evil eye.

            “Michael, stop telling your brother and sister there’s no God.  You know better than that.”

            “You don’t believe in God, Michael?” Aunt Margie said.

            “No.”

            “Why not?”

            “I just don’t.”

            Aunt Margie looked at me sadly.  “That’s a cryin’ shame.”

            I actually felt guilty.  I didn’t believe in God, and I was never that crazy about Aunt Margie, but I could see she was hurt.  She tossed her cigarette out Mom’s window and said, “Well, I’m gonna get me some shut eye ‘til Jimmy gets back.”

            Mom gave me another look and said, “That’s a good idea.”

            “Yeah!” the twins said, as though it were some kind of final blow directed at me.

            I grabbed an issue of Avengers and pretended to read.  It drove my mother nuts that I didn’t believe in God.  I came from a Catholic family and there were things you just didn’t say.  “I’m an atheist,” was one of those things.  I didn’t have a problem with religion; it just wasn’t for me.  It seemed more a scare tactic the way it was wielded in my family, than a thing of beauty and eternal salvation.  To hear Mom tell it, you’d expect Jesus and God standing beside her, all threatening you with sauce ladles for your sins!  I simply didn’t believe in a divine good and I definitely didn’t believe in pure evil.  But that was all about to change.

            I heard Mom snoring and noticed she still had a lit cigarette.  I always had visions of our house burning down from her dozing off while smoking—I had a recurring dream Lucky and I were trapped in the flames, unable to escape.  I quietly poked my head over the front seat to see if I could grab her cigarette and put it out so nothing would happen.  Lucky was facing the glove compartment, but when he heard me moving over the seat, he turned his head all the way around, à la Linda Blair in The Exorcist!  His eyes glowed red. 

            I yelled out loud, opened my door, and leaped out.  A pickup truck beeped its horn—I almost stepped directly into interstate traffic.  I ran around to the side of the car and stood face to face with a fire! 

Aunt Margie’s cigarette had rolled into the dry grass and started things burning.  It wasn’t a huge fire, but it was spreading right up against the Inferno.

            “Get out of the car!” I yelled, waking everyone.  Mom and Aunt Margie panicked; they wanted to leap from the passenger’s side, but they would have jumped right into the flames.  They climbed out the driver’s side and were almost hit by a van.  The twins shot out the back and left the doorgate open, so I rummaged around for a fire extinguisher. 

Right beside the first aid kit that came with the Inferno, I found one!  I pulled the extinguisher’s pin while running around the car, pressed the release, and FOOM!!!  More flames were spreading everywhere! 

            I gave the fire extinguisher another burst and the fire spread even more.  I smelled gas—the fire extinguisher was filled with gas!  I looked at the writing on the side of the extinguisher before throwing it to the side—it said, “And whosoever was not found written in the book of life was cast into the lake of fire.  Revelation 20:15.”  A lake of fire was forming on the side of I-79, thanks to the Inferno!

            “What did you do, Michael?!” Mom shouted.  I didn’t have time to argue—I ran to the back of the station wagon, grabbed the cooler, and dumped its contents on the fire, hoping that would do the job.  I choked on thick, black smoke, but got a lucky hit—most of the fire was extinguished; those places still burning were easily put out by a few well-placed stomps with my foot. 

            “What the hell?!” Mom said, petting Lucky. 

            Aunt Margie added, “Michael, what have you done?!”

            “What have I done?!  More like what have you done, Aunt Margie?  Your cigarette started the fire.”

            I dug around and found her butt in the grass, on the edge of the charred area.  I picked it up.

            “Does this look familiar?” I said.

            “Oh, Lordy.  I didn’t mean to start a fire.”

            “You need to watch it, Marge,” Mom said.  “If that fire got up under the car’s gastank, we’d all be dead.  Can’t believe you.”

            Mom took her position as big sister by just a few minutes seriously, and deep down reveled in the moment anytime she could belittle my aunt.  Mom wouldn’t give up until she got a rise out of Aunt Margie.  “We could have been killed.”

            “I’m so sorry,” Aunt Margie said.  If she had a tail, it would have been planted firmly between her legs.  “I didn’t mean to.”

            “Well think next time,” Mom said.  “You can’t just flip a cigarette out the window or fall asleep smoking—“
            “Mom!” I shouted, pointing at the Inferno. 

            Smoke billowed from the front seat and rolled out the window.  I realized she didn’t have her cigarette—she had dropped it in the rush to escape from the car.  I held my breath and opened the door.  A small fire burned on the floorboard, melting the carpet into a sticky mass.  I grabbed an issue of Vogue and beat the flames down while Gia Carangi stared up at me from the cover.

            Aunt Margie stared at Mom, but was still too frightened of her older sister to speak up. 

            “How’d that fire start?” Mom said.

            “You and Aunt Margie need to stop smoking.” 

            “Yeah!”  Even the twins agreed with me.

            “I didn’t start a fire, Michael.”
            “Yes you did, Mom,” I felt a need to speak up for Aunt Margie, since she lacked the courage to do it herself.  “You were just yelling at Aunt Margie about flipping her cigarette out the window and starting that fire,” I said, pointing to the charred grass.  “But you started a fire inside the car!”

            “That’s different,” Mom said.  “I was rushing to get out.”

            “It doesn’t matter.  You both need to be more careful.”

            I put the cooler in the back of the car, climbed into the back seat with a comic book after the smoke cleared, and waited for Dad.  The twins climbed into the back and went to work on a fresh bag of marshmallows.  Mom and Aunt Margie got in and didn’t say a word for ten minutes.  When the silence was finally broken, it was Mom.

            “I sure could go for a cigarette about now,” she said.

            “Yeah, me too,” Aunt Margie said.

            “If you’re gonna smoke, go stand where the fire was and be careful.”  I wasn’t going to put out any more mistakes.

            They got out and stood in the charred circle.  I heard Mom say to Aunt Margie, “It’s all your fault…”

            I read two issues of X-Men, three issues of Fantastic Four, a Donald Duck comic, an issue of Spiderman, and a Detective Comics before Dad returned.  Mom and Margie were back outside, on their seventh cigarettes.  Dad carried a big bag of food, and was rolling a new tire along the shoulder with a stick, so he wouldn’t have to bend over.  As he neared the car, he sniffed the air, smelling the singed grass.

            “What happened?” he said.

            “Marge started a fire,” Mom said.

            “I wasn’t the only one.”

            “Is everyone okay?!”

            “Yeah,” Mom said.  “Marge flipped a cigarette out the window and burned down half the county.”  She pointed to the scorched circle and ruined baloney sandwiches.

            “Least I didn’t set the car on fire,“ Aunt Margie said.
            “What?!” Dad said.

            “Calm down, James.”  Mom searched for the best way to break the news.  “I wouldn’t have dropped my cigarette if Marge didn’t start this fire.  I could have burned alive in there; that car’s a deathtrap.  I had to jump out quick.  I dropped my cigarette on the floor and it burned some carpet.”

            Dad poked his head in the passenger side window and took a look.  A small circle of red carpet melted away in the fire, revealing part of the black, metal floorboard.  He looked in the back, at the twins and me.

            “Are you guys okay?”

            “We’re fine,” I said.

            “Why don’t you all stand by your aunt and mother while I get this tire on?”

            We stood outside while Dad swapped the punctured spare for the new one.  He put the spare in the back and got inside.  Mom and Aunt Margie started climbing back in with their cigarettes, but Dad said, “No more smoking in the car.”            

They stood outside and finished them, tossing the discarded butts to the ground.  When they climbed in, Dad got out, walked around to where they were standing, and snuffed out the butts with his foot, making a statement about how careless the two truly were.  He looked at the ground, shook his head, and got back in.

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

[Listen]

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER SIX

“Fried Squirrels and ‘Buttermilk’”

            In Aunt Margie’s front yard, my cousins, Debbie and Daryl, were sitting in a bed of dandelions.  I have no idea what they were saying to each other as we drove up, but judging by their actions, I’m guessing it went something like this: Daryl popped the head of a dandelion into Debbie’s face and said, “Your Mama had a baby and its head popped off!”  Debbie grabbed a dandelion from the ground and said, “Hey, Daryl.  You can tell if someone is allergic to butter with dandelions.”  Daryl probably said, “How’s that?” and Debbie put the dandelion beneath his chin.

            “If your chin turns yellow, it means you’re allergic.”

            She rubbed a dandelion on Daryl’s chin, staining it yellow.  He laughed.  It looked like a loving situation: two siblings at play, but the truth revealed itself when Debbie grabbed a whole handful of dandelions (dirty roots and all). 

            “Now let’s see if you’re really allergic, you dirty little bastard!”

            She violently ground the mass into poor Daryl’s face—we could hear him screaming for help all the way from the car.  She shut him up with another handful, which she shoved down his throat, choking him.  Had they both been boys, my aunt could have named them Cain and Abel; Debbie was always trying to kill poor Daryl.  Dad beeped the horn to get their attention.

            My aunt burst through the screen door and saw her fighting children.  “Y’all cut that out!” she hollered as she made her way to the car.

            Aunt Margie was the hillbilly version of my Mom.  Both thought beehive hairdos were still all the rage and they didn’t quite understand polka-dotted dresses were not the most flattering thing heavy women could wear.  Aunt Margie didn’t dye her hair; it was starting to gray.  She thought dying hair was a luxury only afforded to “high-class city folk,” like Mom.  They hadn’t seen each other for awhile and the first words from my aunt’s mouth after Mom said, “How are you doing, Marge?” were, “You got a smoke?”

            “Hold Lucky,” Mom said, handed the little beast off to my aunt.  She held him at arm’s length as he struggled to spin around and bite her.  Mom fished her cigarettes from her purse, lit two, and traded one for Lucky.  Both inhaled deeply, exhaled and sighed, then finally hugged.

            “It’s good to see ya, Mary,” my aunt said.

            “Good to see you, too,” Mom said.  “How’ve you been?”

            “We’re holding our own up here—we’re holding our own.”

             Aunt Margie caught sight of the twins and me.  She rushed over for a hug and kiss.  The hugs were never all that bad, but the kisses…the woman had three teeth, and those teeth looked like hardened pieces of caramel.  Her breath smelled like grizzled animal fat and tobacco, and she exhaled smoke in my face as she tried kissing me full on the lips.  I was able to turn my head and give her my cheek, but it was still a horrible experience.

            “My, how you’ve grown!” she said, before making her way to the twins.

            She hugged them both, smothering the pair against her breasts as she squeezed with her burly arms.  “Look at you two!”  Somehow the twins were spared kisses.

            “Hi, Margie,” Dad said.  Before she could hug him, he added, “Otis around?”

            Otis was my uncle—the male version of Aunt Margie, only dumber.  He had given up a career in coal mining to focus on his alcoholism.  Aunt Margie refused to be “hitched to a bum,” and demanded he work, so he tricked her into believing selling crap on the side of a hill was a reputable job. 

            ‘He’s round back working on a fridge,” she said.  Business has been pretty good, lately.  Shoulda seen how many things we had out in the yard a couple weeks ago.”

            I couldn’t imagine the yard being more littered with junk!  Neither could Dad because we both held back laughter when we made eye contact.  I looked away and Dad said, “That’s not surprising, Margie.  I mean this is quite a location; I’m surprised you haven’t sold the whole lot.”  I tried holding my laugh in and ended up snorting, hurting my sinuses and making my eyes water.  Dad lived for making me crack up.  Anticipating more laughter, Mom pointed to Aunt Margie’s kids and said, “Michael, you remember your cousins, Debbie and Daryl, right?” 

            I didn’t remember meeting them before, but said “Yeah.  Hi, guys,” anyway.

            “Howdy,” Debbie said.  Daryl was still spitting dirt and catching his breath.

            Mom turned her attention to the twins.

            “You haven’t met,” she said.  “But these are your cousins, Debbie and Daryl.  They’re twins, just like you guys.”

            “They aren’t like us,” they said, refusing to acknowledge their presence.

            “I better get back in the house before lunch burns,” Margie said.  “I’ll holler at y’all when it’s done.”

            “Think I’ll go see what Otis is up to,” Dad said.  While he wouldn’t want to spend any length of time with my aunt and uncle, I think Dad saw them as a little piece of Americana.  Honest-to-God Appalachia!  He went around back.      

            The twins wanted nothing to do with their relatives in the hills.  “Can we wait in the car, Mom?” they said.

            “No, you can’t wait in the car!  You’re gonna come inside and help me and your aunt.”

            “If we have to…”

            Mom looked at me and said, “Michael, why don’t you hang out with Daryl until then?  Have him show you the woods.”

            I have a hard time to this day describing Daryl.  He looked like the banjo-playing kid in Deliverance, only with two black eyes from being knocked around by Debbie all the time.  He walked with a limp and spoke in a slow, clumsy manner (I later found out he once stuck his tongue out at Debbie, who kicked him in the jaw at the very moment, causing him to bite half his tongue off!).  The thought of venturing into the woods with him scared me, and I wished I had followed Dad around back to see Uncle Otis (safety in numbers).

            As I walked toward the woods, I wondered if Dad was having better luck.  He told me it went something like this:

            He wandered around back, where Uncle Otis was welding a green Kenmore door onto a white Whirlpool refrigerator.  Otis had a little fenced off work area where he toiled the day away, creating Frankenstein appliances.  His fence was constructed of wood scrap and chicken wire, and a sign reading “Git Back!” hung on the gate.  Dad waited as Otis finished his weld and realized he had company.

            “Well, hell!” he said.  “If it ain’t ol’ Jimmy!  How ya doing, boy?”  He called everyone “boy” or “girl” regardless of age.

            “Fine,” Dad said.  “How about you, Otis?”

            “Can’t complain.  You gonna come over and shake my hand, or ya too good for that?”

            Dad pointed at the “Git Back!” sign and said, “I figured you’d want me to stand back and not crowd you.”  

            Otis laughed.  “Aw, hell!  That sign’s fer the boy.  He comes back here and gets in the fridges.  Stupid cuss damn-near done suffocated ‘while back, so I put that sign up and told him I’d whip his ass a good’n if I ever caught him back here again.”

            Dad wandered in and shook Otis’s hand.

            “Wanna beer, Jimmy?”

            “It’s still a little early,” Dad said.

            “Ain’t never too early when it comes to beer!”

            Uncle Otis pulled two beers from a dirty old toilet bowl stuffed with melting ice and tossed one to Dad.  They both popped their tops, but only Otis drank.

            “What are you working on?” Dad said, trying to start a conversation.

            “Just welding an old door on this here fridge so’s I can set it out front to sell.”

            “You make good money doing this?”

            “Enough to keep an old commode fulla beers all the time,” Otis said, flipping down his welding visor.  “Lemme just finish this up right quick.  Don’t go lookin’ at it, or you’ll fry your eyes all to hell.  Stupid son of mine is damn-near blind and it ain’t all from touching himself down below, if you know what I mean?  He’d watch me weld all day long if I didn’t scare him off.”

            Otis finished up, rocked his visor back, and guzzled his beer.  He looked off in the distance, at nothing in particular.  Dad tried seeing what caught his interest, but there was nothing there.  Otis snapped back to attention and said, “So, that cousin of mine, Mary, around?”

            “Yeah,” Dad said.  “She’s in the house with her sister.”

            While Dad was reminded about the creepy twist in my family tree, I was walking the far end of the property with one of its more crooked branches: Daryl.  Their yard gave way to a large cluster of woods climbing up the side of a small mountain.  It would have been neat had Daryl not been there and had I not had the creepy feeling some toothless yokel might appear from behind a tree and begin an introduction with, “You sure got a purty mouth…” 

            “So what do you guys do around here for fun?” I said.

            “Dunno.  Ain’t much to do, ‘cept hunt an’ stuff.”

            I tried showing interest.  “That sounds cool.  I’ve never been hunting.”

            “Wanna go?”

            “Nah, we’re not staying long,” I said.  “We don’t have the time.” 

            I thought I’d be spared the hunt with my excuse, but I was wrong. 

            “Don’t take much time at all,” Daryl said, picking up a rock from a pile at the base of the tiny mountain.  Before I could ask him what he planned to do with it, he hurled it into the top of a tree—down fell a squirrel!  I was horrified and so was the squirrel; the initial hit didn’t kill it, but I could tell Daryl was used to hunting like that because he picked up a larger stone in both hands, ran over to the poor thing, and ended its life with a few savage blows to its head.  He picked it up by the tail and wandered my way.

            “Wanna learn to skin it?”

            “I’ll pass,” I said in horror.  “I think I hear my mom calling.”

            I ran all the way across the backyard—the length of a couple football fields—and  made my way around the side of the house, where I bumped into Debbie.

            “Oh, hi,” I said.

            “Howdy.” 

            She just stared at me, saying nothing.  I was hoping for some kind of ice breaker, even though I didn’t want to speak to her.  A pregnant hound dog wandered by, its breasts leaking milk that trailed behind in the dirt.

            “That your dog?” I said.

            “Yep.”

            It was like she could only speak in single words.

            “What’s her name?”

            “Buttercup,” she said.  “She’s a milkin’ hound.  You can tell by her titties.”

            I didn’t know what to say; I wanted to run all the way back to Jersey.  She wasn’t finished talking, though—perhaps she was proud she finally mastered the fine art of multiple-word sentences.  She was on a roll.

            “Wanna see my titties?” she said.

            I never loved my aunt more than when she yelled, “Y’all get in here if ya wanna eat!”  I ran faster than I’ve ever run in my life…all the way into the house with the tarpaper roof, to a table covered in an Appalachian Feast.

            My aunt set the table with paper plates—they looked used.  In the middle of the table was a green Tupperware bowl older than me, full of chunks of some kind of fried meat.  Having “been huntin’” with Daryl, I had an idea what kind of meat the bowl contained and my appetite fled from my stomach.  Each setting had a glass full of an off-colored milk.  I can only guess it came from Buttercup herself!

            “Damn, girl!” Uncle Otis said, coming in the front door.  “That squirrel sure smells good!”  I was hungry, but I was not about to allow fried squirrel and dog milk to enter my system.  For once, my family all agreed on something—when Aunt Margie looked at us and said, “Dig in!” we all replied, “We’ve eaten!”           

“Suit yerself,” Otis said.  “More chow for us!”  He looked into the living room and shouted, “You gonna eat with us, Paps?”

            I hadn’t noticed, but sitting in a rocking chair in the living room was an old man—Otis’s father. Paps was a frail husk; he looked like a discarded rag doll tossed on an old rocking chair for rustic atmosphere.  He could bathe a million times and never look clean, the result of years underground, working as a drillman in the mines.  His pores were packed with grime that would never let go. 

“You hearin’ me, Paps?” Otis said.  “Gonna eat?”

Paps said something no one but Otis seemed to understand.  When he spoke, it sounded like he was talking through a mouthful of marbles and molasses.  A rumbling rattle emitted from his chest, and he gurgled like a fancy coffee machine.  Every sentence ended in a coughing fit.  Black lung.

            “You sure, ol’ boy?  I’ll bring a plate to ya,” Otis said.  Between the heavy accent and his lung affliction, the only word I could make out from Paps was, “No.”  I guess when you can hardly breathe and it hurts to move, eating is not high on your list of priorities, even if it’s something as appetizing as fried squirrel and hound dog milk. 

I felt bad for Aunt Margie and Uncle Otis; even for Debbie and Daryl.  It’s easy to make fun of people like them, but as easy a target for ridicule as they can be, there was a sadness in that room—everyone waiting for the day Paps’s chest would percolate no more.  I remember the air in West Virginia filling my lungs on that trip; few places in my travels have I ever drawn as fresh a breath.  It seemed criminal that Paps couldn’t. 

I still hadn’t taken a seat and I was glad when Aunt Margie said, “Michael, I forgot to get the butter.  Can you go in the fridge and get it fer me?”  It gave me an excuse to stop thinking about how depressed I was becoming.

“Sure,” I said.

The fridge was one of Uncle Otis’s creations—his masterpiece.  The body was perhaps once an old, brown GE model from the late 60s or early 70s, but Uncle Otis had stripped it down, painted it with chrome spray paint, and worked it over with a steel wool pad, giving it a poorly-rendered brushed steel look.  The reason for such an effort?  The door!

Uncle Otis had found a discarded door to a genuine, honest-to-God, stainless steel gourmet kitchen refrigerator on one of his outings.  Uncle Otis had a talent for being able to fit the door from one brand of refrigerator to the body of another.  It looked like the door had seen better days, but it was clear Uncle Otis put his heart into repairing this one—he had buffed out the scratches as best he could, hammered the dents back out, and polished it, just like restoring an old car body.  That door was their prized possession, and to show their appreciation, they covered it in grease stains and passages from the Bible held in place with tacky magnets.

I opened the door; it was so heavy, it almost tipped the entire fridge over.  The interior of the refrigerator was pretty vacant, except for some raw meat in open Tupperware bowls, an empty bottle of catsup, and a waxy brick of butter I could only assume came from the same source as the milk: an old blue tick hound dog.    

When I closed the refrigerator door, I noticed a yellowed newspaper story from 1968 stuck to the door with a smiling watermelon magnet.  Reading the first two paragraphs, I finally found out how my grandfather had died, and why Mom didn’t like discussing his death.

REOPENING TOMB FOR 78 MEN

WASHINGTON (AP) – Slowly, agonizingly slowly

for the relatives of the 78 men whose bodies lie below,

the seared walls of Mountaineer Coal Co’s No. 9 mine

are cooling off.

And as steel bits chew through the West Virginia

mountain shielding the shafts and tunnels, officials

prepare the plans to enter the mine for the recovery

expedition and the first step in resuming digging.

I don’t know why I did it—perhaps it was a way, in my mind, to have a piece of the grandfather I never knew—but I took the article from the fridge and shoved it deep into my pocket.  I felt like I was stealing a lot more than just a piece of old newsprint, but I also felt I deserved it; after all, Mom and Aunt Margie had known the man—I could only wonder what he was like. 

            I brought the plate of butter to the table and set it down.

            “Y’all gonna at least sit down with us?” Uncle Otis said, taking a seat at the head of the table.  I sat down and looked at hound’s milk in a Dukes of Hazzard glass Dad kept eyeing.  The house was full of little gems in my father’s mind: plastic and glass drinkware from such silver screen classics as Smokey and the Bandit, to small screen classics like Battlestar Galactica.  Daryl, who rushed to the table only after tossing the dead squirrel in the sink (but not washing his hands), drank from a plastic Kool-Aid Man mug I know my father was looking for.  From a tacky lamp made from a conch shell my grandmother gave my aunt after a trip to Florida, to a shellacked frog dressed in tiny overalls and holding a little banjo, I knew my old man was trying to figure out the best way to buy every tacky thing they owned and get it into the Inferno without Mom noticing.

            I watched my aunt, uncle, and two cousins make short work of their lunch.  They maybe had twenty teeth between the four of them, but the teeth they did have seemed made to shred gristly squirrel meat into small enough pieces to swallow when chased to their stomachs with warm dog milk.  Watching them, I never wanted to eat again!  They wolfed everything down as though they hadn’t eaten in weeks (a distinct possibility)—they made my family’s eating habits seem the epitome of civilized behavior.

            When they were finished, Aunt Margie pointed toward the sink and said,“Ya sure y’all ain’t hungry?  It won’t take but a second to skin that critter up an’ fry it fer ya.”

            “We’re sure!” we all said in unison, like the twins.

            “What about your dog?  We have some table scraps?”  Lucky wouldn’t even touch their lunch, and he was known to dig in Mom’s flower garden and eat poop left there by neighborhood cats.

            Uncle Otis wanted us to “sit just a spell,” but Dad insisted we had a schedule to keep.  We packed Aunt Margie’s things into the back of the Inferno and the twins climbed in the back with all our belongings, not even saying goodbye to Uncle Otis or our cousins.  No one seemed to care, though; not many people felt comfortable around Olivia and Elvis. 

            Dad made one more quick trip to the back of the car as Mom said goodbye to Uncle Otis.  I saw him set a box in the back and take a quick peek inside.  He pulled out the Kool-Aid Man mug and smiled.  When Uncle Otis was done giving Mom a hug that was obviously a bit too friendly and bothered her, I saw him slide a wad of bills from his pocket and thumb through them.  Dad amazed me—he was a pro at buying things right under people’s noses, a handy talent to have when you’re married to someone like Mom, who criticized your every purchase, even though her own spending habits were questionable at best, too.  For Uncle Otis, I’m guessing it was a bigger payoff than if he sold every appliance and beat up car in the yard; I’m sure old toilets overflowed with cold beer and ice later that evening.

We piled into the Inferno while Otis shouted, “Y’all take care, now!  An’ don’t go fallin’ in that canyon, ya hear?!”

            We all shouted “Bye!” but Otis wasn’t done. 

            “An’ when you bring my old lady back, be sure to leave some room fer lunch!” Dad waved politely and put carin gear.

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

[Listen]

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER FIVE

“The Genetic Puddle From Whence I Crawled”

            We pulled off the interstate, and soon four lane highways turned into narrow two-lane roads as we made our way into the hills.  The narrow roads gave way to a dirt road Dad turned onto and carefully navigated.  There were deep ruts and holes cut by past storms everywhere—it looked more like the practice grounds for an army artillery unit, than a trail leading up to a residence.  

            “Hey, kids!  Look up there!” Dad said, pointing at a treetop where a large bird was roosting.  “A red-tailed hawk!” 

As we chugged up the trail, careful not to fall into craters along the way, the hawk took off, annoyed by the occasional revving of the engine as Dad maneuvered the Inferno from one pothole to another.  Further up, we saw a white-tailed deer sprint toward the woods and leap into the trees to safety.

            “Isn’t that great?” Dad said.  I think I was the only one impressed.  I loved seeing all kinds of different animals on our trips: bald eagles in the Northwest, armadillos in Texas, alligators in Florida and Louisiana, roadrunners in New Mexico, and the moose we once saw in a marsh on a trip to Minnesota.  Even more common animals, like hawks and deer, were a welcome sight.  We had plenty of wildlife back home in Jersey, but right in Atlantic City—aside from some birds—all we had were rats.

            “It’s just a deer and a bird, James,” Mom said, petting Lucky.  “They’re nothing compared to Lucky.  Isn’t that right, Lucky-Boy?”  The little dog, which reminded me of one of those rats back home, vibrated with excitement.

I let Dad know I at least liked seeing animals in the wild.  “That’s cool, Dad.  Thanks for pointing out the hawk.”

Even though I had to put up with Mom and the twins, I always considered myself fortunate to have seen so much of the country by the time I was thirteen.  We really had been just about everywhere in the lower forty-eight states on Dad’s trips.  I appreciated the geography of each area, the subtle things that made each section of the country different and special.  West Virginia may get a bad rap, but it’s a gorgeous state.  The mountains roll on and on and never seem to end.  All the wildlife, the wildflowers—I thought Aunt Margie was lucky to live in such a pretty place…then I saw her house! 

The front yard was littered with old, mismatched appliances and beat-up, rusty cars, all with FOR SALE signs on them.  Suddenly a yard full of pink lawn flamingos didn’t seem so tacky.  If it was a piece of scrap metal that once drove, cleaned clothes, or kept beer cans chilled, it was for sale in Aunt Margie’s front yard. 

When I finally caught sight of the house, I was surprised it wasn’t up on blocks, like most of the cars scattered about the property.  Calling it a house is giving it too much credit—shack might even be too kind.  It looked liked a gigantic fort built from scrap lumber and tar paper by clumsy kids.  The only things giving a hint people actually lived inside was the coal bin beneath the front porch and a big TV antennae on the roof.  I’m sure one good shove would have been all it took to bring the whole place down.  It suddenly dawned on me looking at that shack on the side of the hill: I was related to Hee Haw!

Outside my immediate family, Grandma, and Aunt Margie, I didn’t know much about my relatives.  Dad’s side was pretty normal—at least this is what I’ve gathered from hearing his stories; my grandparents died before I was born.  Dad’s mother and father lived on a farm outside Topeka, Kansas and were as Whitebread America as they come: Grandma baked pies and cleaned house while Grandpa took care of the fields and talked a lot about “the good ol’ days.”  They were a tight-knit family and supported Dad’s dreams.  Dad was an only child, and even though Grandpa needed him around the farm, when Dad decided to head out and see the world, my grandparents supported him.  When his writing career never took off, they didn’t say, “See, we told you so;” they encouraged him to keep trying.  When he gave up the dream to move to New Jersey to be with Mom and sell insurance policies, they gave him money and their blessings.  Dad was pretty normal, except for one thing when he was growing up: he thought he was Superman.

He didn’t just pretend to be Superman like many kids—he was convinced that just like the genuine article, he crash landed in a field in the Midwest after his birth parents placed him in a ship and sent him light years across galaxies to the safety of Earth.  He was convinced that one day his “earth father” would take him out to the barn, show him the ship he arrived in and the spot where he crashed, and his life would never be the same again.  His mother would make a costume from the blankets from his home planet that were found in his ship, and he would leave Kansas to fight crime not just in the big city, but all over the world, making the planet safe for mankind.

Even after an episode resulting in injury, he still held on to his belief that he was Kal-El, the super kid from another planet.  When he was ten, he tied a red tablecloth around his neck and climbed out his bedroom window, onto the overhang that kept the front porch safe and dry during summer storms.  He took a few deep breaths and ran as fast as he could toward the edge, jumping with all his might before going over, throwing his arms out in front of him for even more power.  He fell like a stone—straight into the dirt below where he broke his nose, knocked out four teeth, and broke two ribs.  For most children that would be proof enough that he was powerless, but it only convinced Dad to try harder.  He was more like Wile E. Coyote than Superman.

He was convinced a stress-inducing event would bring out his super powers when puberty hit.  He tried racing trains (almost getting hit twice!), and took running leaps at the barn, convinced his powers would suddenly kick in and he’d fly over the weathervane atop the roof.  He got a lot of concussions and facial lacerations, instead.  He ordered the Charles Atlas system from a comic book, going from a ninety-seven pound weakling, to Topeka’s most perfectly developed teen, but the superpowers never came.  When he finally accepted that he was, in fact, born of terrestrial parents and was little more than a dreamer trapped in the middle of nowhere, depression set in and he decided the best way to put it to rest would be by seeing the world.  That’s when he packed his bags and went off across America to find who he really was.

I’m glad Dad was a weird kid—I think growing up convinced he was the Man of Steel drove him to think big.  Most of those big dreams never came true, but he at least gave them a try, which is more than most people can say.  While he never saved the world from evil—while he never jumped into a phone booth to change into costume and fly off to save the day—to me, he was still Superman. 

Mom’s side of the family is where the real fun begins.  Her side is chock full of everything from stage magicians, to backwater hillbillies!  The only people I really knew on my mom’s side of the family were Grandma and Aunt Margie.  I knew my grandmother very well; she came for visits a couple times a year, and even when she was traveling, she always called every Sunday to chat with Mom.  Aunt Margie came for visits now and then (either my Dad paid for her to come out East, or my grandmother paid).  I always knew Aunt Margie was—for lack of a nicer way to put it—a backwards hick, but seeing where she came from drove that point home.

Aunt Margie always reminded me of a cow—I mean that in a good way.  She had huge, brown eyes like a cow, and a kindness and calm that went to her very core; a strange, almost Zen-like aura.  Like a cow, she had a faraway look about her, always deep in thought about not much at all.  She was her father’s favorite daughter, and I always got the impression Mom was jealous, not because she wasn’t as loved as Aunt Margie, but because—in Mom’s mind—everything between her and Aunt Margie was a competition and it was the one area Mom knew Aunt Margie had an edge.  There was no denying my grandfather liked Aunt Margie better; they were very similar. 

I always wondered about my grandfather growing up.  Mom spoke of Grandpa in the past tense for as long as I can remember—all I knew about him was he died about a year before I was born.  If I asked Mom to tell me about him, she’d say, “Your grandfather was a coalminer,” as though that explained everything.

Grandma met my grandfather when she was sixteen.  By the time she was seventeen, she had given birth to fraternal twins: Mom and Aunt Margie.  I figured my grandfather had to be a special guy to have married a woman as neat as my grandmother.  Years later, I found out they were never married; in fact, they had never even lived together or spent more than an evening in each other’s company.  My grandfather was little more than a horny teenager working in a coalmine who happened to win the affections of my grandmother one evening during a chance encounter.

Some family history: my great grandfather (Grandma’s father), was a magician based out of Atlantic City (The Great Gazpacho—he thought it was a catchy name; he didn’t realize he had named himself after soup).  He trained Grandma to be his assistant and the two traveled all over the country doing their act (the first time he took Grandma to the Grand Canyon was on a drive to LA, where he was hoping for a chance to break into movies—it never worked out).  My great-grandmother died giving birth to Grandma; my great-grandfather was a single father in a time raising children was still considered “women’s work.”  On a trip to Chicago in 1945, he decided to take the “scenic route” and show my grandmother the mountains—this route took him through West Virginia, where his car broke down not too far from Clarksburg.   

While waiting around the garage to have the car repaired, my grandmother met Earl Webb, who was stopping by to say hi to his friend, Bertham, a mechanic at the shop.  I’ve only seen one picture of my grandfather, an image of him standing with a group of coalminers.  In the photo, Grandpa is standing in the center of a group of hollow-looking men leaning on shovels, all wearing head lamps like big, psychic third eyes allowing them to see in the dark.  Looking at their blank stares made me think something was taken from them, something important from deep inside them that they all missed dearly.  Grandpa, though, was smiling, his arms wrapped around the two men flanking him, both looking proud to know him and stand in his presence.  It’s an old black and white photo, but Grandpa’s ice-blue eyes shine through the monochrome image and the grit covering his face.  I was amazed a human could get so dirty: every nook and wrinkle in his face full of soot, the ridges in his knuckles black with coal dust.  I guess he cleaned up well, or Grandma didn’t mind getting dirty.

He was fascinated with my grandmother because she was from “the big city,” and she was fascinated with him because he wasn’t.  By the time the car was repaired, my great-grandfather thought it was too late to head back out on the road and decided to spend the night in town.  Grandma and Earl made plans to meet later that evening; one thing led to another, and they did everything parents tell their children not to do before marriage.  The following morning, Earl showed my grandmother where he lived and gave her a piece of coal to remember him by, but that wasn’t all he gave her.  For the next nine months, she carried around more than just the memory of Earl Webb wherever she went.

When Grandma began showing signs of the pregnancy, she knew who the father was right away.  She may have been loose that evening in West Virginia, but she was no floozy—Earl Webb was the only man she ever allowed to know her in such a manner.  As Mom and Aunt Margie grew in her belly, she could no longer contort and fit inside secret compartments in magic boxes, and not many crowds wanted to see a pregnant girl in a tight outfit keep trying.  With no assistant, my great-grandfather’s act went belly up and he turned to his weakness for making money: gambling (at least I know where my mother gets it).  He spent all his time at Garden State Park, betting on horses, and before he knew it, he was in over his head, owing money he didn’t have to people you don’t want knowing your name.  They found his body in an alley not too far from the track.

With her father gone, Grandma had no choice but take odd jobs to make ends meet.  She did everything from selling concessions on the boardwalk, to housekeeping duties at the Chalfonte-Haddon Hall Racquet Club on the fifteenth floor of the famous hotel.  She sold tickets to shows, and even tried doing her own magic act, but no one wanted to hire a woman about to bear something illegitimate.  She did everything she could to earn a buck, right up until things changed inside her and she knew something big was about to happen.

She bought a bus ticket to West Virginia, making it to Clarksburg on Christmas Eve.  As she neared town, her contractions hit hard and it was just a matter of time before babies came into the picture.  The bus driver, noticing she was in pain and about to deliver, offered help, but she gritted her teeth and told him to keep driving.  When she reached her stop, the driver offered help again, but Grandma told him it was her problem, not his.  With a smile, she let him know the sentiment was appreciated, then she stepped from the warm bus into the bitter, snowy night.  As the bus pulled away, her water broke, spilling onto the surface of Highway 50.  With a blanket slung over her left shoulder and her suitcase in her right hand, she trudged off into the woods where she and Earl Webb had their fling nine months prior, and gave birth to my mother and aunt on the very spot where they were conceived.

She didn’t rest long before cleaning them up, swaddling them in the cleaner part of the blanket where they were delivered, and taking them to Earl Webb’s house.  She crept up to the front porch, tucked Mom and Aunt Margie in an opened suitcase, then knocked on the door and ran for the tree line where she hid to make sure someone answered.  When lights came on in the house and the front door opened, she made her way back to the highway to thumb a ride out West.  I don’t know if the Webbs could even read the note she left behind, but Mom still has it:

Dear Earl Webb,

You may not remember me, but we met about nine months ago when my father’s car broke down in town and we spent the night.  That evening, you and I came together in a union that resulted in the birth of these two precious girls.  I am not abandoning them, just asking that you care for them for the time being—I have every intention to provide for them. 

Unfortunately, the line of work I’m involved with calls for a lot of traveling, and raising two girls on the road is no life for growing children.  I will mail money to contribute to their support every two weeks—please consider the included funds my contribution until I can get on my feet.  When I am in a more stable position and able to provide for them, I will return and we can discuss their future.

Sincerely,

June Mangione

P.S.  The baby on your right is named Mary Catherine, and the one on the left is Margaret Rose.

I wonder what the Webbs thought, receiving such a package on Christmas Eve; my mom and Aunt Margie sitting there like little gifts.  For all I know, they may have thought they were good eatin’.  Grandma also left a fistful of cash—probably more than the Webbs had ever seen in one place at any given time.  But most of all I wonder what Earl’s face must have looked like seeing something he gave to Grandma come full circle and return to him late one Christmas Eve. 

            Grandma stuck up to her end of the bargain, sending bi-weekly support payments when she landed a gig as a magician’s assistant in California.  She later broke off and did her own act, touring nightclubs and learning ventriloquism on the side.  Six years later, she was back on the East Coast, doing shows in Atlantic City, where she had her own place.  She was finally ready to return to West Virginia, to discuss Mom and Aunt Margie’s future with the Webbs.   

             It had to be very confusing for a six year old; the mother you never knew coming out of nowhere, to see if you wanted to go live with her in the big city.   The Webbs could hardly afford to feed one child, let alone the pair, but Aunt Margie wanted to stay in the hills.  Mom, however—even at such a young age—had decided she was destined for far better than a life in Appalachia, and was ready to leave.  She took Grandma’s last name and went off to live far from the hills.   

When you think about it, Mom’s life was actually pretty neat: born behind a bus stop in the hills, raised by hillbillies in the impressionable years, and later, a strong-willed, female magician.  Still, her childhood had to skew things somewhat; my mother was far from normal, and when you factored Dad into the equation, things became even stranger.  But no matter how weird my immediate family could be, I was about to see we were far from backwards…

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

[Listen]

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER FOUR

“Saint Christopher vs. the Dead Cow”

          We took the Atlantic City Expressway to the New Jersey Turnpike.  Dad turned north instead of south.

“Where are you going?” Mom said.

            “You know where I’m going, Mary.”

            “We’re not stopping for that damned cow, James.  We don’t have time!  It’s out of the way!”

            Like Mom, Dad was not without his own weird superstitions.  He began every road trip with a stop at the grave of Elsie the Cow—it was one of his favorite roadside attractions.  I don’t recall ever seeing a Borden Milk product in the house growing up, but for some reason, a road trip wasn’t a road trip in my old man’s eyes unless we stopped and paid homage to that artifact of the dairy marketing machine.

            “It’s good luck,” he said.

            “How is a cow good luck?” she said.  “It’s not even under the headstone.  It’s buried beneath tract housing.”

            Mom was right, while Elsie’s body rests on land that was once the farm we’re told she loved dearly, the headstone was moved a couple times and now rests several hundred yards away from her earthly remains.  Elsie’s final resting place now has town homes sitting on it!  The year of the trip was the same year Steven Spielberg’s Poltergeist came out and I wondered if there was any truth to building housing on a grave; I wondered if building a town home on a cow’s tomb resulted in the same horrors building on an Indian burial ground brought about…at least in Hollywood’s version.  Did the person owning the residence directly above Elsie’s skeleton ever wander down to get a glass of milk in the middle of the night and came face to face with the spectral body of Borden’s most beloved bovine? 

            “You’ve got your Saint Christopher necklace,” Dad said, “and I have Elsie the Cow.”

            Mom pulled her SAINT CHRISTOPHER, PROTECT US necklace from beneath her dress.  “Are you trying to compare a dead cow to an honest-to-God saint?!  That’s blasphemy, James—you’re going to Hell!”  To hear it from my mother, it was like she personally had the power to send people to an eternity in the company of Satan himself.  “I’m serious!  That’s like the Golden Calf, comparing a cow to Saint Christopher.”

            “Is Saint Christopher even a real saint?” I said.  I may not have been religious, but I kept tabs on things, just so I could get under Mom’s skin.  Dad tried hard not to laugh.

            “Of course he’s a real saint!” Mom said.  “What would you know about it, anyway?”

            “Oh…I just thought the church de-canonized him around the time I was born, but what do I know, I’m just an atheist.”

            “Quit being a smartass!” Mom said.  “I’m gonna have to fight hard to get you out of Purgatory, someday, Michael.”

            “Maybe not.  I’m sure the church will one day decide Purgatory doesn’t exist.”  I was on a roll.

            “Stop talking like that—“

            Dad interrupted Mom—he wanted to get back to his favorite cow.  “Look, we’ve never had problems on road trips when we stop in Princeton, first.  We can cut across Pennsylvania and still make good time.  Why break with tradition now?”

            “Because this is going to be a long enough trip without heading north, when we should be heading west,” Mom said.  Before Dad could speak, she added, “If you don’t turn around right now, I’m never gonna let you live it down, James!”

            “Fine,” Dad said, defeated.  “But if anything bad happens on this trip, I’m not going to listen when you blame it all on me…”

          We cut across Delaware and into Maryland in silence; the only noises were the sounds of the twins sharing a bag of marshmallows and Lucky chewing on one of my mother’s makeup compacts.  He got into some green eye shadow, and when he jumped up on the back of her seat, he growled at me with green teeth until Mom told Elvis to throw a marshmallow his way.  After skirting Baltimore, Dad popped in a Slim Whitman eight track, but fortunately for the rest of us, the stereo and eight track didn’t work—we would at least be spared such road trip classics as the Whitman Yodel, the Wabash Waltz, and Please Release Me.

            I tried reading comic books, I tried listening to music on my new Sony Walkman, but nothing worked.  Dad could easily drive fourteen hours straight through; I couldn’t imagine such long hauls in absolute silence, let alone crossing the country like a family of mimes.  Even the twins yakking away behind me would have been welcomed, but they didn’t make a sound.  It was up to me to break the monotony and bring the family back together.

            “Why don’t we all sing, or something?” I said, but everyone ignored me.

            “I’ll start.”  I sang, “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall…ninety-nine bottles of beer…take one down, pass it around, ninety-eight bottles of beer on the wall,” to no avail.  I gave it one more try; this time, louder.

            “NINETY-EIGHT BOTTLES OF BEER ON THE WALL…NINETY-EIGHT BOTTLES OF BEER…TAKE ONE DOWN, PASS IT AROUND, AND HOW MANY BOTTLES OF BEER DO YOU HAVE LEFT ON THE WALL, EVERYBODY?”

            “None!” the twins said.  “Shut up!”

             “You shut up!” I said.  I was at least trying to make things better, but nobody cared.

            “Mommy, Michael’s being mean to us, again,” Olivia said.

            Mom swung around, almost knocking Lucky from his perch on the back of the seat and into my lap.  “Stop it, all of youse!”

            Realizing she almost hurt Lucky when she spun around, she grabbed him and coddled his rat-like body.  I returned to my issue of Fantastic Four, but the twins weren’t about to leave well enough alone.  I heard Elvis whisper something to Olivia.  Next thing I knew, she hit herself in the arm and started crying.

            “Oww!!!” she shouted.  “Mommy, Michael hit me!”

            “I did not!” I said.  “She’s lying!”

            Mom turned around again, this time brandishing Lucky like a weapon.  “I said stop!  Do I have to tell your father to turn this car around so I can get the ladle?!”

            I knew she’d never hit us with that damn ladle, but it would take years before the twins realized it was a threat bearing no weight.  They straightened right up and said, “No, we’ll be good.”  Mom looked at me, waiting for a response, but I wasn’t about to let her win with the old ladle threat.  She wanted some kind of acknowledgement from me that I heard her, but I just looked ahead at I-70 through the windshield.  Mom wanted to drive her point home, though.       

“Michael, don’t hit your sister again—“

            “But I didn’t do anything!”

            She rummaged through her purse and found Lucky’s dogbrush.  She handed the brush and the little beast to me.  ”If you need something to do, brush Lucky.”  She reached back into her purse and fished out her cigarettes. 

No sooner than I held him in my hands, he threw up on me!  The twins laughed and Mom handed me some napkins.  “Poor Lucky,” she said.  “Did Lucky-Dog get carsick?” 

“I’m about to be sick,” I said.

“He can’t help it, Michael,” Mom said.  “It’s not like he does it on purpose.”  I wouldn’t be so sure.  “Just brush him and he’ll calm down,” she said, returning to her magazines. 

I cleaned the mess from my lap; Lucky wolfed down a big bowl of dog food before we set out on the trip, and Mom must have also given him a waffle and orange juice, from the looks of things.  I noticed some tiny pieces of hard green plastic in the frothy pile—maybe pieces from one of Elvis’s plastic army men, or chunks of a Tupperware bowl Mom had crammed in the kitchen cabinets Lucky figured out how to get into.

            Brushing him was impossible.  Each time I tried getting near Lucky, he’d bite my hand.  I finally pinned him down so he couldn’t wiggle loose.  Sitting there, trying to keep my hands free from his sharp, little fangs just aching to draw blood, I thought about past road trips.

            We never got along like normal families, but we usually stuck together on my old man’s treks.  We had to stick together, just to stay sane!  Dad could drive for weeks, and if it didn’t take at least five days to reach our destination, he felt cheated.  When you’re forced to stop every twenty miles for side of the road photo opportunities, unity with even enemies like the twins was called for (Dad was convinced that one day he’d snap a picture of us without the twins making funny faces, or without us all looking so exhausted from being packed into a car for a week or more, that we looked tired and used, like truck-stop prostitutes).  When the madness of highway travel became too much to bear on our own, we’d all sing, talk, and play games.  For fleeting moments, we could even pass as a real family, but during the trip that summer, nothing would ever be normal.

            The sound of the brush running along Lucky’s scrawny, fuzzy body was actually soothing.  There was an orchestra of sound playing in the car: the brush along Lucky’s back, the twins quietly muttering to one another in the back of the car, the sound of the tires on the road, and Dad humming Dave Dudley’s “Six Days on the Road“ softly to himself, since he couldn’t play it on his eight track.  Lucky calmed down, and for a moment, I thought he was actually going to doze off.  Then he bit me…hard enough to break skin.  But that wasn’t the horrifying part—what got to me were his glowing red eyes! 

He had looked up at me while I was brushing him, teeth still green and sticky from eating Mom’s eye shadow and a marshmallow.  I gave him a dirty look and locked eyes with him; I had heard many animals assert dominance with a glare and I was prepared to put Lucky in his place.  He won the staring contest, though, when his eyes began glowing red, like a tiny demon from hell.  I wanted to hit him, to try knocking whatever was inside his head free, but I froze, allowing him to make his next move.

            “Oww, crap!” I shouted, startling Dad.

            “What’s wrong?!”

            “Lucky bit me!”

            The twins thought it was funny.  “Good dog, Lucky!  Good dog!” they said.

            We rolled past a REST AREA—1 MILE sign.  “We can stop up there and get your hand cleaned up and bandaged,” Dad said.

            Mom turned around, more concerned about Lucky than her first-born son.  Lucky’s eyes returned to their normal shade of brown.

            “Poor Lucky,” she said while taking him from me.  “He’s just feeling cooped up is all.  Isn’t that right, Lucky-Wucky?”  He kicked his back legs, licked her lips, and snuggled up on Mom’s chest.

            “Poor Lucky?  What about me?!”

            “Your father said we’d stop and get your hand fixed.  You’ll live, Michael.”  She turned her attention back to her dog. 

It was nice knowing my mother cared so deeply about my well-being; her oldest child gets hurt and it’s an inconvenience, but her mangy mutt stretches wrong and it’s the end of time.  At least Dad was there for me.

            We pulled into the rest area and the twins immediately begged Dad for change so they could raid the vending machines for soft drinks and candy.  Mom gave them money and told them to get her cigarettes from the machines, too.  The twins had their sugar—Mom had her nicotine.  All I had was a bloody hand and a father who wasn’t quite himself.

            Dad grabbed his first aid kit and took me to the men’s room to get cleaned up.  While packing theInferno that morning, Dad found the car came with its own first aid kit, a red metal box with the words of Revelation 5:16 on it: “And out of the temple came the seven angels having the seven plagues, clothed in pure bright linen, and having their chests girded with golden bands.”  There was something about a first aid kit with a message about plagues that didn’t sit well with him, so he opened it for a closer look.  Once he saw, “’I looked when he opened the sixth seal, and behold there was a great earthquake; and the sun became as black as sackcloth of hair, and the moon became like blood.’ Rev. 6:12” written on a package of band aids, he decided bringing along the first aid kit from the garage was a much better idea.

            Dad finished bandaging my hand where Lucky bit me.  I wanted to tell him about Lucky’s eyes glowing red, but I knew he wouldn’t believe it.

            “I’m sorry I yelled at you this morning,” he said.

            “It’s okay.”

            “No it isn’t.  I’ve never yelled at any of you.  Not even your mother.  I don’t know what got into me and I wanted you to know I’m sorry.”

            “It’s okay, Dad.”

            “You know I love you, right?”  It was important to him to let us know he loved us more than anything; even more than side-of-the-road trinkets like stuffed Tijuana frog bands and fake Indian head dresses with state names emblazoned across them in plastic beadwork.

            “Of course,” I said.  “I love you, too.”

            He ruffled my hair and said, “Good.  Nothing can ever come between us, right Buddy?”

            “Right!”

            “If I ever act like that again, you slap some sense into me, okay?” he said.

            I told him I would and he gave me a hug.  We stepped out in time to see the twins making their way back to the car with arms full of root beer, bubble gum, chocolate bars, and a couple packs of Virginia Slims. 

            “You want something?” Dad said, pulling money from his pocket. 

            “Sure.”  I took a dollar and went to the vending machines.  I got a candy bar that was already melted from sitting in the sun all day and headed toward the car.  I crossed in front to get to my door; when I did,the Inferno lurched forward!  I jumped out of the way, dropping my candy as I dove for the sidewalk.  I felt the tire against my leg, stopping just shy of running me over!

            Dad put the emergency brake on and jumped out.  Mom was too busy opening a pack of smokes to notice what happened, and the twins were too busy laughing.  Lucky was staring right at me.  His eyes weren’t glowing, but I knew he had something to do with it.

            “Are you all right?!” Dad said.

            It happened so fast, I didn’t have time to think if I was okay.  I looked over my body—everything worked.  Aside from two skinned elbows and a knee that needed cleaning, I came out unscathed.

            “Yeah, I guess.”

            “I’m so sorry,” Dad said.  “My foot must have slipped off the brake.”

            Lucky continued staring at me.

            “It’s okay,” I said, walking all the way around the back of the car, ready to jump to safety if it decided to lurch back in reverse.  When I climbed into the backseat, Mom, who still hadn’t noticed I was hurt, said, “It’s about time,” and lit a cigarette. “How far to Marge’s?”

            “About two and a half hours,” Dad said, putting the car in gear.  “We’ll see if we can make it straight through.”

            Two and a half hours packed in a car with my family with no hope for escape.  The twins had pooled their money together and bought some soap bubbles on an early stop for gas.  About an hour into our silence, they unscrewed the top, took out the little wand, and blew bubbles, trying to float them over the back seat and onto my comic books and me.  They ended up floating up front near Mom, instead.

“What the hell?” she said, watching a bubble float just before her face.  Lucky popped it with a quick snap of his mighty little jaws, looking disappointed it had no edible interior.

            “Youse guys stop that—those things are flammable!” she said.  “If they touch my cigarette, they’ll pop and it’ll be just like the Hindenburg in here.”

Growing up in New Jersey, home of the Hindenburg disaster, the twins had an irrational fear of zeppelins.  They cringed when they saw the Goodyear blimp on TV when Dad and I watched the Giants play football; they were sure one day a flaming dirigible would blow all the way down from Lakehurst and crash on the house, killing us all.  But they didn’t buy what Mom had said about common soap bubbles being flammable—they were evil, but not totally gullible.

“Daddy, is that true?” Olivia said.

“No, sweetie, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t blow bubbles inside the car.”

We returned to silence, and I decided to take a nap against my better judgment.  Sleeping on road trips is normally a great way to pass time, unless your siblings are evil twins spawned not from their mother’s womb, but from the very bowels of hell itself! 

When I fell asleep on road trips, I became a target once my eyes closed and I was off in dreamland.  The worst thing about the Inferno was the twins had the entire back storage area from which to plot and launch surprise attacks on me.  In the Gremlin, it wasn’t so easy. 

One of their favorite things was asking Mom for her purse, saying they wanted to get some gum.  When she handed it to them, they’d grab her lipstick and draw all over my face.  I can’t count how many times I woke up with “DORK,” “WEENIE,” and “LOSER,” written on my forehead in some strange shade of red or pink only my mother and circus clowns had the courage to wear in public.  Other times they weren’t so subtle; Elvis was known to just haul off and punch me!  I’d awake to sharp pain in my arm and a charley-horse that lasted twenty miles.  Olivia loved waiting until I was sound asleep, then pumping her arm at passing truckers, getting them to blow their airhorns.  I’d wake up in a startle, thinking we were about to get creamed by an 18-wheeler while the twins laughed themselves silly.  Knowing I’d soon regret it, I closed my eyes and dozed off.  Somewhere between finally getting comfortable and a dream in which Lucky was trying to eat a priest, the twins sprung into action.

*          *          *

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!” I shouted, bolting awake.  I felt my face—it was covered in sticky lumps.  I thought they poured battery acid in my mouth!  My head echoed with the sound of a million Rice Krispies—something was popping and burning on my tongue, like having a mouthful of bees.  Elvis shoved a Coke in my face and said, “Drink this!”

I guzzled the drink without realizing it was part of Elvis’s plan—the stinging sensation got worse.  The twins stared at my face, then down to my stomach. 

“Shake your belly around, Dork-Brain,” Olivia said. 

“We want to see you blow up,” Elvis added.

I realized what they had done as Dad pulled the Inferno to a stop on the shoulder so he could see what was wrong with me. They started with a bag of mini marshmallows—biting them in half, licking them, and then sticking them to my face.  After that, they poured two bags of Pop Rocks into my open mouth.  They were putting that old childhood urban legend to the test, the one that says if one consumes Pop Rocks and Coke together, their innards will explode in a massive mess of bloated guts.  The only thing it did was give me gas, but just the fact they believed it would kill me and decided to test that theory was a reminder of just how much they hated me; just how evil they were when they put their heads together.

            “Are you okay?!” Dad said, laughing.  He knew what happened—he saw it all unfold in the rearview mirror, but didn’t stop it.  To my father, a big part of road trips was pulling pranks of each other, and in his book, this rated right alongside putting shaving cream in someone’s hand, then tickling their face so they’d scratch and make a big mess.

            “Yeah, I’m okay,” I said.

            “What happened?” Mom said, turning around.  She saw my face covered in marshmallows and shook her head.

            “The twins happened,” I told her, picking marshmallows from my face.

            Mom put her hand out.  “Gimme those.”  I gave her the marshmallows and she fed some to Lucky.

            “They tried killing me.”

            “How did they try killing you?” Mom said.

            “They put Pop Rocks in my mouth and gave me Coke!  They thought I’d explode.”

            “Did you explode, Michael?”

            “No.”

            “Well, then,” she said, popping a marshmallow into her mouth.  “Go back to sleep.”

            “I’m not going back to sleep,” I said.  “There’s no telling what they’ll do next time.”  I had visions of the twins filling my nostrils with dog snacks and letting Lucky mine for munchies.

            “Then read, or count cars,” she said, returning to her magazine.  Dad pulled the car back onto the highway and we were rolling along again.  

            My family kept to themselves.  The twins chit-chatted with each other softly enough to hide any other plans of what they had in store for me should I have fallen asleep again.  Mom flipped through beauty magazines like Cosmopolitan and Glamour.  The only thing glamorous or cosmopolitan about my mother was every ten years or so, it seemed heavy makeup and kitschy clothes came back in style, but most times, she looked like a clown with a beehive hairdo dyed a vacuous shade of black. 

            Dad was always game for chatting on trips, but I knew if I tried talking with him, Mom or the twins would interrupt, so I didn’t even try starting a conversation.  Besides, I knew what was going on in my old man’s head—he was visualizing all the things he’d buy on the road for his collection: shark’s teeth, stalactites from caves, miniature muffler men replicas, Jell-O molds shaped like states, and snow globes.  He owned hundreds of the things, but said there was always room for another snow globe. 

            I decided silence was golden and read comic books until Mom announced she had to find a bathroom.  Had one of us needed to go, she would have made a big production about how we should have gone at the last stop and remind us Dad wanted to make it all the way to Aunt Margie’s without stopping.  But since it was her bladder about to explode, it was all right.  We found a little gas station and Mom rushed off to the bathroom, but quickly returned.  She said the stench before even opening the door was all she needed to know about what waited inside.  Another stop and another quick turn around; the second stop didn’t have a toilet, just a hole where the toilet once sat.  Apparently that didn’t stop some people from using the bathroom.  Mom said it appeared several people tried using the hole, others the sink, while some were content simply using the floor!  She finally told Dad to just pull over on the side of the road.

            “Mary, there’s no place to go,” he said.

            “James, if you don’t stop, your new front seat’s soaked,” she told him.

            He pulled over to the shoulder and stopped.  There wasn’t a tree in sight, no ditches, no place to hide. 

            “I have an idea!” she said, grabbing Dad’s camera.  Dad liked keeping his camera unpacked and handy on trips, ready to capture an event in a moment’s notice.  “Kids, Daddy’s gonna take your picture.”

            “I am?”

            “Yes, James,” she said, gathering a handful of napkins.  “Come on, kids—I need your help.”

            We stepped into the grass along the highway and Dad readied the camera. 

            “Just make it look like we’re taking a nice family shot,” Mom said.  “Kids, stand over there, right next to each other so no one will see me.”

            She planned to use us as a screen!  She handed Lucky to me and squatted down behind us. 

            “All right, kids,” Dad said.  “Say cheese!”

            When I said “cheese!” Elvis stepped to the side and Dad snapped a picture of my mother that still haunts me to this day!  I punched Elvis in the arm, not caring what kind of vengeance he’d return.

            “Stop that!” Mom yelled.  “I’m peeing!”  There was no doubt about that—we have a picture to prove it!

            Elvis came back at me with a tackle, knocking Lucky from my hands.  He knocked us back into Mom, who caught her darling dog before he hit the ground.  “Be careful of Lucky’s molera!” she screamed.  “Watch his head, or he’ll die!” 

Olivia started crying.  “Daddy, Michael hit Elvis!”

            Dad just stood on the shoulder with his eyes closed, wishing the world would disappear.  A semi rolled by and blew its air horn at Mom, whose legs were straight up in the air, her huge buttocks on display for anyone traveling I-70 to see.  We could have sold prime billboard space on that butt had she not rocked forward to a sitting position so she could give the trucker the finger.  Elvis was working my arms over with rapid-fire punches—he knew better than hitting me in the face.  He had a bad habit of breaking my glasses when we fought, and Mom told him if he ever broke another pair, it was ladle time.  Olivia kept crying until Mom yelled, “Shut up, all of youse!”

            She hiked up her panties, dropped her dress, and walked back to the car.

            “Elvis, get off your brother,” Dad said. 

            “He started it!”

            “I know.  Just get off him, please.  We need to get to your aunt’s.”

            He got one final punch in as he got up—right in the gut, knocking the wind out of me.  What did I ever do to deserve such a family?

            We all climbed back in the Inferno and this time made it to Aunt Margie’s without stopping.

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

[Listen]

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER THREE

“When I Dream, I Dream of Hell”

            While packing, I thought about the relationship my mother and father had; I wondered what Dad saw in Mom.  Back then, I thought what they had was a “normal” relationship, something I was destined to follow.  The thought of marrying someone like my mother made me consider joining the priesthood, only I didn’t believe in God.  I just didn’t understand why my father accepted all the grief Mom tossed his way.  I always loved my mother, but the woman gave birth to me.  Dad had a choice—he could have had his pick of gorgeous women who appreciated him, yet he chose Mom. 

After packing, I put my duffel bag by the front door.  I noticed the light was on in Dad’s den and I went to say goodnight.  That den was his Fortress of Solitude—it’s where he housed his collections.  He had huge, tacky ashtrays decorating shelves, even though he didn’t smoke.  Lava lamps, pixie paintings, and truck stop placemats were a prize find in his mind; they shared space with Hawaiian hula lamps, fake African masks, and a stuffed jackalope head on the wall, with tiny red Christmas lights for eyes.  The thing reminded me of Lucky for some reason.  Dad sat at his desk, looking over roadmaps and putting the final touches on the trip.

            “Hi, Dad,” I said.  “I’m all packed and ready for bed.”

            “Great!”  He signaled me to come over and look at his plan of attack.        

“So, you have it all plotted out, huh?” I said, knowing the answer.

            “As always!”  He pointed out our route on a map of America.  “First we hit West Virginia, to pick up your Aunt Margie.”  His finger moved east, along Interstate 64, into Kentucky.  “Then it’s off to Mammoth Cave—you’ll love it…lots of stuff to do there!”  His finger dropped down to Tennessee.  “After that, your Mom wants to stop at Graceland, now that it’s open to the public.  Better than the last time we drove through Memphis and she tried climbing the gate, huh?” he said, elbowing me gently in the ribs.  Mom could barely climb a flight of stairs, but that didn’t stop her from trying to scale the wall at Graceland.  She was convinced the King was alive and well and still living in his mansion.

From Memphis, he moved his finger west.  He crossed Arkansas, Oklahoma, the Texas Panhandle, New Mexico, and finally stopped in Northern Arizona.  “Of course there are plenty of roadside attractions along the way.” 

When Dad said there were plenty of roadside attractions, what he meant were plenty of stops for bad pictures with us all pretending we were getting along; it was our gift to him so he could look at the photos and pretend we were the perfect family he always wanted.  One time I counted them, there are over three hundred fifty pictures of my family posed before things on the side of the road: muffler men, historical markers, and fiberglass statues.

“That’s a long drive,” I said.  “After Graceland, we just drive straight through?”  It wasn’t like Dad to not have every stop planned out.  Maybe he finally realized Mom would complain about stopping for landmarks, reptile farms, and reputed UFO landing sites; maybe Mom was getting the upper hand even on trips.  I was glad when Dad pulled me closer to the map, hoping it would help me understand what he was about to say.

            “It’s a big country, Michael.  There are few things better than heading out and seeing all it has to offer.  If I could make a living driving around the country, collecting stuff, I would.  You can make a few big plans along the way, like Mammoth Cave or Graceland, but the beauty is in the discovery, Buddy.  There are things out there along the highway just waiting to be found.  They aren’t on any map; they leap out at the last second!  It’s all about freedom.  It’s what your grandpa fought for in World War Two; it’s what our forefathers died for.”

            I like to think my grandfather fought for more than a family pitstop at Stuckey’s or a wading pool full of alligators, but the open road made my Dad feel like a pioneer.  In his mind, it wasn’t about a tired insurance salesman taking a vacation with his overbearing wife and his children—it was about following in the steps of Lewis and Clark…at least in spirit.  Then he said it:

“It’s healing, you know?”

            “So I’ve heard.”

            “One day you’ll understand,” he said, lost in thought.  He looked at the clock on his desk: a big, round clock face set in the belly of a ceramic frog he bought in California.  “You’d better get off to bed.  We’re leaving before sunrise.”

            I gave Dad a hug and said goodnight.  As I left the den, he said, “Sweet dreams.”

*         *          *

            I usually had no problem falling asleep, but that night was different.  If it wasn’t my sheets bunching up, or my pillow getting warm, it was the sound of a passing car, or Lucky choking on something he found on the floor.  Normally, little things like that wouldn’t bother me; I was usually able to fall asleep anywhere, in any condition, but that night I tossed and turned for hours.  While my family was fast asleep, I laid wide-awake, thinking about the trip before us.  How could they sleep, knowing they were about to embark on a twenty-four hundred mile journey to dump a body in the Grand Canyon?  To my family, it was just another dysfunctional family vacation, but to me it was a pilgrimage.  It was after three before I finally fell asleep, and even then, I was restless and haunted by a dream.

            I was with my family at the canyon, only they were nowhere to be seen.  I stared into the canyon—it reminded me of an image of hell the way it reflected reds and oranges from the deep pit.  I heard noise behind me.

            “Ashes to ashes,” I heard my father say, followed by Mom saying, “Dust to dust…”

            I turned and saw my entire family (including Aunt Margie), standing in church robes.  Lucky floated alongside my mother, his eyes glowing red like Dad’s jackalope head.  The twins chanted in Latin as Mom opened the urn holding my grandmother’s remains.  As eerie as it was, the scene was also peaceful.  My family seemed to have come together, finally realizing how important the trip was.  We were putting Grandma where she felt she belonged, on her fiftieth trip to the canyon. 

It figured Mom and Aunt Margie had to ruin the moment.

Aunt Margie reached for the urn, but Mom wouldn’t share it with her.  The two fought like children, having a tug-o-war over Grandma’s ashes on the rim of the canyon, which started filling with flames.  Mom and Aunt Margie tugged at the same time; the urn slipped from their hands and fell in.  I leaped after it!

            Instead of falling, though, I floated above everything, watching the cremains disappear into nothing.

            “Grandma?” I said.

            “What, Mikey?”  Her voice was everywhere.

            “What’s it all mean?”

            “What’s what all mean?”

            “Everything,” I said.  “What’s it all mean?”

            “Look down, Michael.  It’s healing.”

            I finally understood!

            Floating above something so huge, I realized how small I really was.  Seeing something so gigantic put me in my place and reminded me there were things so immense in life, we can only look at them in awe and marvel at their beauty.  It was more than healing—it was life changing!

            Below me, I saw the flames take shape—a large phoenix shot up from the fire, knocking me back to the rim where my family waited.  The experience somehow changed me; it changed my family, as well. 

The twins sang “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall,” while Mom, Dad, and Aunt Margie hugged me like they’d never let go.  Lucky chewed on my pant leg, but I didn’t mind; my family—for the first time ever—seemed like a real, functional family!  It turned out to be the best dream ever—I didn’t want to wake up.

            I was awakened by screams.

*          *          *

            “Why the hell aren’t youse two packed?!” Mom bellowed.  “If we weren’t leaving on vacation, I’d ground the both of youse!”

            I got out of bed and made my way down the hall, where Mom was rushing back and forth between Elvis and Olivia’s rooms.  A cigarette dangled from her mouth and Lucky followed closely behind.  I wandered up and feigned confusion; I loved seeing my brother and sister in trouble and if I could stir things up even more, all the better.

            “What’s up?” I said innocently.  I had to struggle to keep from laughing.

            “What’s up?!  Your brother and sister aren’t ready is what’s up!”

            Mom rushed into Olivia’s room, pulling handfuls of clothes from her dresser and tossing them in a suitcase—it was probably the most exercise she had in months!

            “Weren’t they supposed to be ready last night?” I said.

            She stepped back into the hallway, on her way to Elvis’s room.  “Yes, they were supposed to be ready last night!  But you don’t see them ready, do you?” 

            It was time to show her how good I was, and how horrible the twins were.  “I had my stuff ready last night,” I said.  “Did you see my things by the door this morning?”

            She poked her head out of Elvis’s room; she was growing angry with me.

            “Yes, Michael, I did!  Right beside my stuff and your father’s stuff.  But you’re only as fast as the slowest person in the family, so why don’t you hurry things along and pack the twins while I make sure we have everything.”       

            She rushed down the hall with Lucky in tow.  Just before turning into her bedroom, she said, “Can’t believe this crap!”

            So much for my plan.

I stepped into Olivia’s room first.  “Where’s your stuff?”

            “In my drawers and closet, Dummy-Head!”

            I heard Elvis laughing from his room.

            “You have nothing packed?” I said.

            “You’re smart, Four-Eyes.”

            There was no winning with the twins.  You could try being nice and they pushed even harder.  It was like they believed everyone had a trigger deep down, and their sole purpose for existing was to find that button and push it.  Maybe there was truth in that theory; they could get under anyone’s skin.  Give them five minutes with Gandhi, and they’d have him swinging like Mike Tyson. 

            “He’s not smart, O.  He’s a retarded retard!” Elvis said.  He called Olivia “O” and she called him “E.”  They thought it was an absolute riot to sit in the backseat of the car and say “O-E-O-E-O-E-O-E…” for miles. 

            “Did you hear what E said, Mickey?” (I could stomach my grandmother calling me “Mikey,” but I drew the line at “Mickey”).  “You’re a retarded retard.” 

They pushed my button.  I punched Olivia in the arm—not hard, just a tap to let her know her big brother was there and not about to take her crap.  She screamed as though I cut her arm off with a chainsaw, however.  In an instant, I was blind-sided by Elvis.  I quickly regained my feet.

            Elvis was the biggest ten-year-old I’ve ever seen.  Even though I was older, he was bigger than me and able to take me toe-to-toe, so I had to resort to dirty tactics where he was involved.  I kicked him in the nuts just in time for my Mom to come rushing back to see why Olivia was crying.  Both my younger siblings shrieked in exaggerated pain.

            “Mommy, Michael got mad and hit me and then turned around and kicked Elvis in his tenders.  We didn’t do anything bad.  We were just trying to help him pack!”

            Mom hugged Olivia, rocking her back and forth as Lucky jumped onto the bed and tried eating a pair of Olivia’s socks.

            “Michael, you’re making a rough morning even rougher,” Mom said.  “Go see if you’re father needs any help.  I guess I’ll help the twins.”

            “I didn’t do anything wrong!” I said.  “I’ll help them.”

            Mom summoned her best martyr voice.  “No, Michael…I’ll do it.”

            The dreaded “I’ll do it!” shtick!  The woman could make Christ feel guilty!  “I’ll do it,” meant she wanted you to beg and plead to take on the cross she was bearing, but no matter how much you begged and pleaded, she wouldn’t let you help.  Later, she’d be furious you didn’t lend a hand and she’d never let you forget it.  Thirty years later, I still hear about that morning.  There was no way out, but I didn’t care.

            “Fine!  You do it!!!” I yelled.  “And have fun, too!!!”

            Before Mom could say a word, I stormed off to my bedroom.

            “You get back here, young man!” she said, figuring I’d stop.  I didn’t.  “Michael Gabriel O’Brien, do you hear me?!” 

I continued walking.

            “Fine, I’ll do it!” she said, defeated.  “Go help your father, then!”

            When I reached my room, I understood why Dad always had a smile on his face when he stood up to Mom.  She really was an imposing figure, and standing up to her took guts.  It felt good to finally win a round, no matter what retribution might follow.  For that one moment, she had no control over me and I’d later realize she wasn’t half as tough as I grew up believing.

I got dressed and went down to help Dad pack the car.  He was already done, though, but I noticed I could help him with something.

            “What’s wrong?” I said.

            “Flat tire.”

            “We just bought the car, though.”

            “I know,” Dad said, putting his finger in a hole in the tire’s sidewall.  It looked more like burn than a puncture.  Dad was sweating so heavily, it reminded me of Mom sweating into the spaghetti sauce the night before.

            “I don’t get it myself,” he said.  “But that doesn’t change the fact it’s flat.

            He pointed to the jack, a big, old-time chunk of steel.  “Can you hand that to me, Buddy?”

            “Sure.”

            I went to grab it, but quickly pulled my hand back.  It was hot!

            “What’s wrong?”

            “The jack’s hot.”

            He looked at the sun just poking its head above the trees.

            “Well the sun’s not heating it up.  You sure?”

            “Yeah,” I said, trying again.  I picked it up and quickly made my way to Dad, before being overcome with pain.

            “Oww!!!”

            I dropped the jack on the small of Dad’s back!

            “Oww!!!” he yelled.  “What the hell’s wrong with you?!”

            “I’m sorry,” I said, backing up.  “I was just trying to help.”

            “Why don’t you go help your mother with the twins, then?”

I went to the backyard and moped, instead…

            Mom was the yeller of the family.  Dad never raised his voice, even when he probably should have, so I was shocked when he yelled at me.  In my mind, the trip west should have been bringing us closer together as a family, but all it seemed to be doing was driving a wedge between us.  It seemed sacrilegious to yell at each other when there were bigger things on the horizon.  I hardly think Grandma would have wanted us to kick off the trip mad at each other, but that’s precisely what we did.

            When Mom finally got the twins packed—when the house was all locked and we were ready to go—Mom ridiculed Dad for buying “a piece of crap car with shoddy tires!”  He yelled back at her, surprising everyone—especially Mom—who was not used to having people stand up to her.  The twins started crying, saying my parents were going to get a divorce, and we all piled into the Inferno and pulled out of the driveway hating each other.

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

Stay safe, and take care…

[Listen]

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER TWO

“The Big, Orange Hole in the Ground my Grandma Loved So Dearly”

            “A station wagon?!” Mom said, puffing on a Virginia Slim.  Dad stepped out, not realizing she was ready to drop the gloves and go—in his mind he believed she was complimenting him on the wise purchase of a vehicle that could carry our entire family anywhere his wanderlust desired, in comfort and “style”.  All he needed to do was take one deep look into her eyes to see the intensity of her anger, however.  The woman lived for complaining, but Dad was seemingly immune to the effects of her constant barrage of insults, and totally clueless when it came to realizing the woman he married existed to do little more than eat, gamble, and argue.  I didn’t understand it; he simply loved my mother with all his heart.

            “Isn’t it great?”

            “No!  Where the hell did you find such an ugly thing?” she said, smoothing the wrinkles in her flowered muu-muu, and blowing smoke through her nostrils.  She looked like a fat dragon trapped in the clearance bin at a fabric store. 

            “The used car lot,” Dad said.  “But it’s brand new.”

            “Brand new and ugly.  Take it back!  I don’t want this piece of crap trashing up the driveway.”

            An overweight, chain-smoking woman with a beehive hairdo standing in a front yard full of plastic, pink lawn flamingos and she had the gall to say the car would look trashy in the driveway?  While my father saw the novelty in things like pink flamingos and velvet Elvis paintings, my mother saw them as the pinnacle of high art.  She would be the first to criticize my father for buying tacky, roadside novelties, but she owned more ashtrays from Las Vegas than I had baseball cards!  She collected matchbooks and decks of cards from casinos; velvet paintings—she owned a small army of drinking birds.  I didn’t understand my parent’s relationship until many years later when the obvious finally dawned on me: in Dad’s love of all that was tacky, Mom was the ultimate piece in his collection—he married the Queen of Kitsch!  There was no other way to explain the hell that man endured, but if it worked for them, I suppose that’s what mattered.

            “I’m not taking the car back,” Dad said, defying my mother in a rare moment of bravery.  “I’ve been saving for a car and this is the one I liked best.  Please, let me have this one thing, Mary…” 

He waited for her answer.

            “Are those wood paneled doors?”

            “Yes, they are,” he said proudly; thinking—I’m sure—that she was warming up to the Inferno.  “They don’t make cars like this anymore.  It’s a limited edition.”

            “I’ll say!  You’re probably the only one in the world who buys one, too,” she said.  Then, in her best sarcastic tone, she added, “I’m sure it will be worth millions someday!”     

            Dad turned and locked eyes with Mom—he was going to fight for this one.  As they stared at each other, I sat back, noticing just how different the two were.  My old man was a pretty sharp looking guy.  To look at him, you’d expect my mom to at least be the mother friends came over to sneak a peek at, and maybe even think about when puberty settled in and they discovered themselves.  Dad always reminded me of an actor: he was strapping enough, charming enough, and definitely good looking enough.  He had a quirky manner of speaking, as though he were always stating things to a sidekick; his deep, radio announcer-like voice drove points home.  He had a swagger to his step that bordered on comedic, but to anyone under thirteen, he simply looked badass and tough.  The other mothers in the neighborhood always stopped by and talked with him whenever he did yardwork, which he did sans shirt, wearing only tight jeans and work boots.  As he talked to my playmates’ moms, he looked almost posed, sweat dripping from his chest like the condensation from the glass of iced tea or soda he always had nearby.  Like every thirteen-year-old, I saw my old man and the top of the heap of coolness, but so did my friends; I had the dad every kid only wished they had—the best dad anywhere!

            Why, then, did he marry my mother?

            Mom was what happened when you crossed West Virginia with Atlantic City: she was the walking, talking embodiment of tackiness!  She spit when she talked and interrupted people.  She cursed and told dirty jokes, all while smoking long, pencil-thin cigarettes that she felt made her look glamorous, like a forties movie star.  Whereas Dad’s physical match of a wife could have been a buxom blonde leaning against his well-defined chest on the front of a B-movie poster, Mom’s perfect match, physically, would have been a skinny guy in overalls with a piece of grass wedged between his only two teeth, or some bingo hall owner with slicked back hair and a cheap suit, with aspirations of becoming a Vegas pit boss.

            Mom and Dad met in 1967 when Dad was traveling cross-country.  He wasn’t on a voyage of self-discovery like the scores of hippies traveling at the time—Dad knew what he was looking for.  Armed with an Exakta 35mm camera, a notepad and pen, and the dream of becoming a travel writer, Dad climbed into his second car, a  ’57 Nomad not entirely unlike the Inferno, and set out from his home in Kansas, to drive up the East Coast in search of old sideshows.  While photographing the boardwalk in Atlantic City, he met my mother.

            He was taking pictures along the boardwalk, where she worked in a hotdog stand.  A morning snapping pictures of old hotels, the beach, and piers filled his stomach with an emptiness only the mismatched insides of slaughtered cattle and swine could fill, so he stopped for a hotdog.

            I wonder what it was like the moment they first saw each other—did he look at Mom and think, “This is the woman who will have my children one day!” or did he think, “I wonder if she knows she has a smear of mustard on her chin?”  There had to be something that clicked at that moment…or maybe some people really are destined to be together.    

Dad ordered two hotdogs and a soda.  Mom was always very matter of fact (okay, she was rude!), and rarely made small talk, but she asked, “Where you from?”

            “Topeka, Kansas,” Dad said.

            “What brings you all the way out here?”

            “Just taking pictures.”  Dad was very timid and sold himself short, but there was something about Mom that made him feel special.  “Actually,” Dad said with a hint of confidence, “I’m writing an article about sideshows and boardwalks.”

            “You’re a writer?” Mom said, snapping Dad back to reality.  He wasn’t a writer—he only wished he were. 

“Well, no—not really.  I mean I want to be, but I’ve never written anything.”

Mom smiled at Dad and said something totally unlike her; she said something encouraging!  “Well, everyone’s gotta start somewhere, right?”

Dad smiled.  “Yeah, I guess they do.”  There was something about that plump woman in the hotdog stand spreading relish on his lunch that made him feel invincible. 

 “How much?” Dad asked.

            “Well, if you’ve driven five thousand miles for a hotdog, you shouldn’t have to pay,” Mom said.  Her perception of distance was a bit skewed; she’d only really traveled back and forth between Jersey and West Virginia, and usually slept along the way. 

            “It’s only about twelve or thirteen hundred miles, actually.”

            “Still…that’s quite a drive.” She handed him his hotdogs and drink.  “It’s on the house.”

            “Won’t you get in trouble?”

            “Don’t care if I do.  It’s not like this is my dreamjob,” she said, pointing to a vat full of steaming water and old, flaccid franks.

            Instead of saying “thanks,” Dad summoned the courage to say, “What are you doing after work?” 

            That evening, as they walked along the Steel Pier where Harry Houdini, W.C. Fields, and Charlie Chaplin once honed their skills, and where—in the forties—young couples in love danced to the Big Band sounds of Benny Goodman and the Glenn Miller Orchestra, the first spark of a lifelong love started between Mary Catherine Mangione and James David O’Brien.  A strange love, granted, but love nonetheless.

            They stopped and watched the diving horse.  Growing up in Kansas, Dad had seen his fair share of horses, but he never saw one leap from a sixty-foot tall tower and into a shallow tank of water with a rider pressed to its back.  To Mom, diving horses were as much an everyday thing as people walking their dogs, but to Dad, it was exactly the kind of magic he had left home hoping to find.

            Splash!  Mom and Dad—standing too close to the tank—were covered in foul-smelling water.  Dad thought it was wonderful, but he could tell Mom was far from amused.  She stood on the pier, arms outstretched, looking like an angry, dripping beachball in her red and yellow outfit two sizes too small.

            “Oh, I’m so sorry!” Dad said.  He pulled some napkins from his pocket and handed them to her. 

Instead of yelling, Mom smiled though, wiping her eyes and smearing her mascara so she looked like a two hundred twenty pound raccoon.  “Ya know, I already smell like a hot dog stand—stray dogs follow me home, for chrissake!  What’s a little water, even if it smells like wet horses?” she laughed. 

Dad said he looked in her eyes and knew then and there she was the one.

            Back in the driveway, Mom was the one winning the staring contest (she could outlast a statue with her evil eye), and Dad, hoping to stave off total defeat, said, “I’ll make you a deal…“  He sounded like the greasy salesman at the used car lot.  “We take it on vacation and if it doesn’t grow on you, we take it back.  How’s that sound?”

            “Okay, but I’m telling you right now, James—there’s no way that car’s growing on me.”  Even if the car did grow on her and she ended up loving it just as much as Dad did—just to prove her point and tear away another piece of Dad’s very being—she would insist he take the car back to the lot when we returned from vacation.  She snubbed her cigarette out on a garden gnome in disgust and headed back into the house. 

            Dad stared off in the distance, smirking about something known only to him, then turned his attention back to the Inferno.  He stared at it like it was a newborn child full of potential, then said, “Why don’t you go help your mother with dinner, Buddy?”  .

            “Sure, Dad.”  I went around back, toward the kitchen, allowing Dad a moment to bask in his little victory.

            Dad bought the car just in time for vacation (he wanted to buy it sooner, but Mom kept hounding him, saying we didn’t need a new car—she said the Gremlin had more than enough room to hold her, Dad, my younger brother and sister, my aunt, me, and all our gear for our road trip!).  Dad’s treks were bad enough without being cramped; his annual family vacations were hell packed into a backseat, taking us from the world’s largest Uncle Sam statue, in Lake George, New York, to the La Brea Tarpits, in California, and every roadside attraction, reptile farm, and historical marker in between!  For Dad, a road trip was a chance for the family to bond no matter what—his chance to pretend, at least for a short time, that we were a normal, fully functioning family.  That particular year we would take a twenty-four hundred mile voyage from our home, in New Jersey, to the Grand Canyon, in Arizona.  Going to the canyon was my grandmother’s idea; she loved the place.

            Grandma visited the canyon whenever she had the chance.  My great-grandfather took her when she was young and the canyon bug instantly took hold.  She visited the canyon forty-nine times in her life, and swore she’d visit fifty times before dying.  She used to always say, “Someday you’ll have to visit the Grand Canyon, Mikey.”

            “Why?” I’d ask.

            “Because it’s healing.”

            “It’s a big, orange hole in the ground, Grandma.”

            “A hole?  That’s all you think it is?  You don’t understand.  It’s so much more than that.  It’s healing—“

            “You always say that,” I’d say.  “What do you mean, ‘It’s healing?’”

            She’d stop what she was doing and focus all attention on me, as though I just said something blasphemous.  She’d lock eyes and take my hand in hers, as though she were about to say something important; as though she were about to share with me the secret to life.  I suppose, in her mind, she was. 

“You stand on its edge and something happens,” she’d say.  “I can’t explain it—you have to experience it for yourself.  You stand on the rim and it pulls your soul down to the river for a cleaning, then puts it back with a little bit of itself.  It’s healing, Mikey.  Once you experience it, you’ll go back.  Everyone goes back…”

            Grandma was always my favorite relative (I often wondered how such a peaceful, caring woman had given birth to my mother).  I think what I liked most about Grandma was she truly seemed content with everything around her.  Maybe that sense of calm came from her canyon visits; I don’t know.  I never understood what she meant when she talked about the healing powers of that big hole in northern Arizona, no matter how many times she tried explaining it to me (and believe me, she tried every chance she had).  Whatever she saw in the canyon was beyond my grasp of bigger things when I was younger.  All I knew was the pull to the rim was strong enough to make her head out west whenever she had the chance.  The summer Dad bought the Inferno, we were heading to the canyon, with Grandma…only she was dead!

            She died in the spring—she was only fifty five.  She was on the phone with Mom, talking about her plans for visiting the canyon, when she dropped dead from a brain aneurysm.  She never knew what hit her, but Mom said Grandma knew something was coming (Mom believed my grandmother was psychic, and passed “The Gift” on to her).  Grandma drafted a will that spring and she swore she’d never draft her will until she was at least seventy-five.  Her last wish was to be cremated and have her ashes scattered in the Grand Canyon; her way of giving something back to her old friend, the big, orange hole in the ground.

            I made my way to the back door and into the kitchen, where Mom was making spaghetti sauce.  Looking around the kitchen, one would think she was cooking for an army, instead of just five people.  She didn’t use normal cookware like most mothers; she used stuff purchased from an old friend of the family’s we (even Mom and Dad), called Uncle Mike.  Uncle Mike provided industrial cookware to the restaurant industry: huge, ten-gallon stockpots, blenders that could generate more power than Dad’s old Gremlin, and her favorite piece, a two-and-a-half-foot-long stainless steel sauce ladle.  Mom was never very demonstrative; cooking was her way of showing affection.  In her mind, the more she prepared was a measure of how much she loved us, deep-down, even though she rarely showed it in conventional ways. 

            Mom looked up from her sauce vat—her face drenched with sweat.  “Michael, would you go tell Elvis and Olivia that dinner’s almost ready?”

            “Sure, Ma,” I said.  She looked back at the sauce and I noticed sweat roll from the tip of her nose and fall into the pot.  Still, I would have much rather stood there watching Mom sweat into the food I was about to eat than spending a moment with Elvis and Olivia.

            Elvis and Olivia are my younger siblings, twins who seem to share a strange, psychic link, even to this day.  When they spoke, most times they’d say the same thing in unison, or flip-flop every other sentence.  It still creeps me out—it’s something I’ll never get used to.  But the strange manner in which they spoke was just the first item in a long list that bothered me about them.

            They were evil.  There’s no nicer way to say it.  They reveled in making the lives of those around them utterly miserable.  From family, to teachers, to strangers—they terrorized those around them with their zombie-like stares and strong penchant for mischief.  They weren’t normal mischievous kids, content at making fart noises with their armpits for attention, though—that was below them.  They calculated every move like Russian chess champions, truly appreciating the depths of their malice when a plan came together as plotted.  They didn’t act out of childish curiosity—they acted out of the same cold, calculated cruelty of twisted, would-be world conquerors and serial killers.

            I went upstairs to their bedrooms, which were situated directly across from each other.  They would have shared a room, but Mom felt that was wrong and sick, so they left their doors wide open so they could see into the other’s room (close one door for even a moment and they instantly suffered from separation anxiety).  They pushed all their furniture to the back wall of their rooms so no matter what they were doing, they could stay in constant visual contact.  Regardless of how many times Mom rearranged their furniture, they’d put things back the way they liked them.

            I went to Olivia’s room, first.  She was sitting on her bed, eating from a bag of marshmallows and staring across the hall, into Elvis’s room, where he was doing the same, in mirror image.  Even with me between the two, blocking their view, they just stared at each other, as though I were a pane of glass.  Olivia’s staring was worse than Elvis’s; the way she stared at things with such purpose and intensity, you expected them to levitate, or suddenly burst into flame.  She looked like a creepy doll controlled by evil forces.

            Elvis looked like a tiny version of The King of Rock-n-Roll (during The King’s fatter years).  I would have been named Elvis, but Mom promised Uncle Mike she’d name her first-born after him.  He saved her life with the Heimlich Maneuver one Christmas when she was choking on calamari.  I am forever indebted to Uncle Mike for saving me from such a dreadful name.        

“It’s time for dinner, you two,” I said

            In unison, they said, “Tell us something we don’t already know, four-eyes!”

            “I hate both of you, how’s that?” I returned.

            “We know—we hate you even more…”

            Even though I was three years their elder, they genuinely scared me.  “Well, I’m just telling you what Mom wanted me to tell you,” I said.  I turned and walked off.  A few moments later I heard them say, “He’s so weird,” as they filed out from their rooms together, like robots.

*          *          *

            Watching my family eat dinner, one would think we were never fed.  The twins shoveled bite after bite into their mouths as though they were racing.  They barely chewed what went in, and that which they chewed was done with an audible, open-mouthed smacking.  My mother slurped spaghetti like a kid, the ends of the pasta flailing about like tentacles and slapping the outsides of her mouth and face before finding their way into her maw.  The sauce splatters looked like an extension of the quickly applied, bright red lipstick she always wore.  Dad at least didn’t make noise, but he ate as though each meal could be his last.  He had a quiet way of eating faster than anyone at the table, so he was usually the first one done each evening.  Me, I rarely had an appetite while watching Mom and the twins belch and gurgle their way through a meal, so I picked at my plate until Dad was finished and I could rush off to help him with the dishes. 

            As sloppy an eater as my Mom was, it drove her nuts that my brother and sister were sloppier.  She was a far cry from being Miss Manners herself, but she expected better from us. 

            “Youse two, close your mouths when you eat!  Where’d you get those manners… cows?!” she said with a full mouth dripping with pasta and bread.  Instead of listening to Mom, the twins defied her by rolling their food around on their tongues and letting it spill onto their plates.  Mom acted like she was going to get up.

            “Don’t you two make me get the sauce ladle!” she said, spitting tiny pieces of dinner everywhere.  The twins closed their mouths and quickly behaved.

            My mother always threatened to hit us with the sauce ladle whenever we were bad.  I can’t remember ever being hit by either of my parents, but the thought of her meaty arms swinging a two-and-a-half foot long kitchen utensil was always enough to set the twins straight.

            As loud as the three of them were when they ate, there was one other family member who put us all to shame.  Over their grunts and belches, he was heard chewing on a fork at Mom’s feet.  That’s when Dad asked the question burning in everyone’s mind: “Mary.  Dear.  What are we going to do about Lucky?”

            Lucky was Mom’s pet Chihuahua.  He was 2,358 pounds of absolute evil packed into a three-pound body!  His head looked like a tiny bruised apple with black marble eyes, fleshy bat ears, and razor sharp shark’s teeth.  Lucky shredded everything in the house not belonging to Mom—as though he consciously knew what havoc he was wreaking on our belongings, while sparing hers.  Mom babied him more than she ever babied any of us.  She wouldn’t allow a soul to say bad things about the tiny beast; even if he shredded something important (like homework, papers in Dad’s briefcase, or our shoes), we were expected to act as though we loved him as she did.  Couple that with a variety of health issues (stomach problems, rheumatism, and asthma, to name a few), and it’s easy to see why everyone but Mom hated the dog.   

            When I say his head looked like a bruised apple, I’m serious; Lucky’s biggest health issue was the fontanel on the crown of his head.  Chihuahuas, like humans, are born with a soft spot.  Normally, the skull grows together, but in some cases, the dogs go through adulthood with a section of their brain protected only by a thin membrane of skin and short fur.  This condition is known as a molera.  To shield his brain from danger, Mom carried Lucky cradled on her left forearm, with her right hand covering his head.  It was like she believed the moment she left the top of Lucky’s head exposed for even a millisecond, everything from bricks and cueballs, to pinballs and shotputs would rain down from the sky and bruise his delicate little brain.  When any of us came within ten feet of her precious Chihuahua, she’d scream, “Be careful with him!  For God’s sake, don’t touch his molera!”  Elvis once poked the top of Lucky’s head and had he not been faster than Mom, I think I would have grown up with only a younger sister.

            As much as Mom worried about Lucky’s molera, it didn’t stop her from using it to her advantage.  She discovered when she pushed in at just the right place on his brain, he froze, momentarily paralyzed until she let up.  It was like an on/off switch allowing her to control the little beast’s temper whenever he got out of hand.

Perhaps the main reason Mom was so protective of Lucky was she believed he was sent to her with a purpose: to make her rich.  The day Mom bought him, she won a thousand dollars on a lottery scratch-off, and the following weekend at the casinos, she came in big on the slots.  She attributed her luck with the purchase of the dog, so she named him Lucky.  The only thing lucky about him was the rest of us hadn’t put him to sleep!

Mom looked across the table at Dad; she was worried.  “What about Lucky?”

            We can’t take him with us,” Dad said.  “He’s got his stomach problem and all.”

            The twins flip-flopped, “Yeah-he-will-shit-and-puke-on-everything.”

            “Youse two, watch your fuckin’ language!  I don’t know where you picked up that shit!” Mom said.  The twins laughed and Mom pretended like she was going to stand again.  “Don’t make me get the ladle—!”

            They straightened right up. 

            “I’m not leaving this house to travel halfway around the world without him,” she said.  “Especially the way you drive, James.  I’m gonna need all the luck I can get on this trip.  He’s coming with us—no one will take care of him while we’re gone.  You should have thought of something sooner—“

            “We could take him to a no-kill shelter!” I said. The twins nodded their heads in agreement; the first time they were ever on my side.  “We can say we found him in the street, then pick him up when we get back.”

“Something tells me even a no-kill shelter would make an exception in Lucky’s case,” Dad said.  As much as he liked my idea, he was very pragmatic; he knew if we returned to a dead Lucky, Mom would never let any of us live it down.  “There’s gotta be something we can do, though…”

            Mom picked up the little ball of hate.  Around his mouth, Chihuahua slobber mixed with blood from cutting his gums on the fork, making him look like he was eating cotton candy.  Mom kissed him on the mouth, not caring about the pink drool.  “Don’t listen to them, Lucky-Wucky.  You’re coming with us.”  She looked at Dad and locked eyes again.  “He’s coming with us, James.”

            Dad stood up, leaving his plate behind.  “Okay, Mary, he can come along on the trip!  But I’m keeping the car, no matter what you think of it.  Deal?”

            “Deal!” she said while letting Lucky lick spaghetti sauce from the corners of her mouth.  She was in rare form and I couldn’t take anymore—she and Lucky were making me ill!

            “May I please be excused,” I said.

            “Sure,” Mom said.  “And make sure you’re all packed before bed, all right?”

“Okay.”  I grabbed my plate and my father’s, cleaned them, and went to my room.

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

Stay safe, and take care…

[Listen]

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

FOREWORD

            Everything you are about to read is true.  When I was a kid, vacations with my family were a living hell.  One year, the hell that was our annual family vacation was taken to a new level; this is the story of that trip.

            Now that I’m older, I’ve gone back and interviewed all parties involved, hoping to make some sense of what really happened.  I present to you, here, the tale of that trip.  It may sound like I’m taking liberties with this story—that I’m embellishing what really happened—but I assure you, as far-fetched as this may sound, it’s the God’s-Honest Truth!

Michael O’ Brien

May 26, 2014

Atlantic City, NJ

CHAPTER ONE

“Into the Inferno”

            I’ll never forget that car; I’ll never forget the day Dad took me to “Smiling Sam’s Used Car Lot.”

            “The price.  It’s a little steep,” Dad said, looking at the $21,000 sticker.

            The car was a throwback to the days when fins and chrome ruled, a fire engine red behemoth of a station wagon that looked like it could fly!  It reminded me of a concept car from the fifties—I could envision it in an old black and white news clip, slowly spinning on a giant turntable with a model behind the wheel at some auto show, while a deep-voiced announcer boomed, “The car of future is here today!”  Dad wanted that car more than he ever wanted anything, I could see it all over his face.  So could the salesman.   

            “You won’t find another car like this one, pal,” the salesman said, stroking his pointed goatee.  I didn’t trust him.  I hated his red suit and the way he slicked his dark hair back, bringing even more attention to the widow’s peak pointing down at his long forehead and thin nose.  His shirt was opened wide, showing off a bed of chest hair so coarse, one could scrub pots and pans clean on it, like steel wool.  He smelled like matches and his stale hair pomade reeked like gear oil.  He rolled a toothpick around in his mouth—it looked like it was hovering just above his lips, and it clacked against his yellowed teeth as he passed it from one corner of his malicious grin to the other.  “This car’s decked out with a lot of old-style goodies,” he said, scratching the back of his hand.  Tiny bits of skin flaked off and scattered on the breeze.  “Look at those wide fenders and big white walls.  All that and it’s got more amenities than the cutting edge cars rolling out of Detroit today!  This beauty does everything you could imagine.  Hell, it does even more than everything you could imagine!”

            He knocked on the door—if nothing else, the car sounded as solid as stone.  “And that’s real, Honest-to-God wood paneling there!  You don’t see that anymore, ya know?”

            “No, you sure don’t,” Dad said, already falling for the salesman’s spiel.  Dad would buy anything pushed his way by a silver-tongued salesperson: our house was full of slicers and dicers, miracle space-age cleaning solutions, and pocket fishing poles purchased from late-night TV ads.  Our front hall closet was piled high with plastic and chrome vacuum cleaners purchased from door-to-door salesmen who totally ignored the NO SOLICITORS sign Mom put up, hoping to save Dad (and the family pocketbook), from their constant assault.  My old man may have been one of the few people in the country who genuinely believed “JAMES O’BRIEN MAY HAVE ALREADY WON ONE MILLION DOLLARS!” when he read mail-order sweepstakes envelopes.  Mom finally hid all the credit cards from him (never mind she probably spent more money on cigarettes, lottery scratch-offs, and Atlantic City slot machines than he did on impulse buys, but any chance to be self-righteous and knock Dad down a notch made her day).  Somehow, though, Dad always found a way to buy things he really didn’t need.  His one saving grace was a frugal streak—at least he rarely paid full retail for things.  “That price,” he said to the salesman.  “It’s a little more than I wanted to pay…”

            “Oh, I think we can work something out,” the salesman said, ruffling my hair.  His long fingernails raked across my scalp, sending a cold bolt down my spine.  He may have known how to play a man like my father, but he wasn’t fooling me.  “Look, I can tell you aren’t one to BS, or buy into a load of crap,” he said to Dad.  “You know cars and know exactly what you want, right?  No one’s ever gonna sell a guy like you something you don’t want, so I won’t even try.  We both know that price is too much, even for a gem like this.  You appreciate this car and I want to see you drive out of here in it.”

            He put his hand on Dad’s shoulder.

            “I’ll let you in on a little secret.  My boss upped the price on this baby.  I’m sure that’s no surprise to you—it’s how we make our money, but even I think he raised it too high and I’m not in the business of ripping people off.  I’ll make you a deal…”

            Anytime someone in a cheap, red suit says, “I’ll make you a deal,” run the other way as fast as you can!  I was only thirteen and knew better, but Dad never learned that lesson.  The year before, he bought a condo on the beach near Galveston, Texas—it was, in the words of the salesman who sold him the plot over the phone, “A deal too good to be true!”  Of course, it was too good to be true.  The property was still contaminated by the oil spill of the Burmah Agate a few years prior, and the tiny shack of a “condo” on the property was still drying out from Hurricane Alicia.  But Dad, ever the optimist, told Mom the exact same thing the salesman said to him: “It may look bad now, but once it’s cleaned up, it’ll be a dream come true!”             

“I’m in the business of putting people in cars and making dreams come true,” the salesman said, removing the toothpick from his mouth and examining it.  He saw something on the end, licked it from the point, and then popped the toothpick back into his mouth.  “How’s this: I’ll go tell my boss you’re driving a hard bargain and won’t go a penny above sixteen-k, including your trade-in.  He was talking just this morning about how he wanted to sell this one-of-a-kind masterpiece by the end of the day and I think he’ll let it go.  You should have this beauty parked in your driveway inside an hour.  How’s that sound to ya?”

            “Perfect!” Dad said.

            “Good, good.  I’ll go talk with him and be back with the papers in a jiffy!”

            I watched the salesman head into the building.  Everything about him, from the way he talked to the way he walked, was wrong.  He seemed like the kind of guy who would sell his own mother’s kidneys if he thought it would put cash in his pocket.

            Dad didn’t know what to think.  He looked at me, hoping for approval.  “So…do you like it, Michael?”

            “It’s neat, Dad,” was all I could say.  He knew that used car lot was the last place in the world I wanted to be.  I would have rather been forced to stay in Dad’s Gulf Coast condo for weeks, with all the water damage and shoddy wiring, than wait ten minutes for the salesman’s return.

            “What’s wrong?” Dad said.

            “That guy gives me the creeps.”

            “That’s just the way salesmen are.  They get desperate and try pretending they’re your friend.  It’s just one of those silly games adults play.”

            “Okay,” I said, still not buying it.  “He’s creepy.”

            “I agree,” Dad said.  “But look at this car!”  He ran his hands across the body, feeling every smooth curve and detail.  I never saw Dad look at something with such pure, unbridled delight; it was like that car was made specifically for him, and the devil be damned if he wasn’t going to be the first on the block to own one!  Lost in a memory, he smiled and said, “It’s got fins just like my first car!  It’s got fat tires just like my first car!  And I bet it’s even got power to burn under the hood just like my first car.”

            I thought about what the salesman said, about how he was in the business of selling dreams.  That car was a dream come true in my father’s eyes—a dream too good to be true, but he didn’t see it. 

            “What kind of car is it?” I said, catching my old man off guard.

            “Hmm…you know something, I don’t know.”

            Right there, I should have known something was wrong.  My father may have owned multiple sets of Ginsu Knives bought in the heat of the moment, but when it came to cars, he knew the names of models months before they were released to the public.  He could name all the parts and tell you everything you wanted to know about what made them go.  He knew the prices: from what it cost to build the car, to what the dealer paid, and what a consumer could expect to fork over.  For him to not know the name, or at least ask…there was definitely something wrong, although I couldn’t put my finger on it.

            My father wandered around to the back of the car.  “Oh, here’s the name,” he said.  “It’s an Inferno.  Never heard of them.”

            “There’s something weird about this Dad.”

            “You’re right, kiddo—that is pretty strange,” he said in a moment of clarity.  “A car like this, you’d think I would have read about it.  I’ll ask the guy for more info when he comes back.”

            A few minutes later I saw the salesman heading our way, papers in hand, with a Cheshire grin plastered on his face like he was about to take something that didn’t belong to him. 

            “There he is,” I said.  He walked up to my father and put his hand back on his shoulder.

            “I had to fight with my boss a little, but he came down to sixteen-k, just like you wanted.  How’s that grab you,” he said, tightening his grip on Dad’s shoulder.

            “Oh…that’s wonderful,” he said.

            “Dad!”

            The salesman looked at me, sneering with sharp, yellow teeth.  Had he been able to get away with it, I’m sure he would have gutted me where I stood and tossed me to the side, saved for further abuse when it better suited him.  “Is there something wrong?” he said.  “I really stuck up for you two in there.  My boss is as tough as they come, but I’m not afraid to put my neck out to put someone in a car they love.”  He turned to Dad and acted hurt.  “What, is sixteen-k not good enough for ya, pal?  I thought we had a deal…”

            “No, it’s perfect,” he said.  “Just what I wanted.”

            “Good.  You look like a man of your word, but for a second there, I thought you were gonna try scratching the sticker down even more.  I’m gonna have a hard time making rent this month with as much as I got knocked off for you.”      

“I appreciate that,” Dad said.

            I wasn’t about to let the salesman take advantage of my old man.  I gave him my best wise guy grin and said, “Why is a brand new car on a used car lot?”

            The salesman was ready, though—he was determined to beat me and put Dad in the driver’s seat of that station wagon.  “It’s the brand new Inferno, the only one offered in this part of the country.  We were chosen as a test market, kid.  My boss knows some people, so we lucked out and got the only one on the East Coast.  By next summer, you’ll be seeing these everywhere.”

            That wasn’t good enough for me.  “My Dad’s never heard of it, though.”

            The salesman patted my father’s shoulder and said, “Sure he has, right James?”

            “Right!” Dad said.  “The beauty of this baby lies under the hood, Michael.”

            He popped the hood while the salesman kept his grip.  The huge engine was a sight to behold, a massive chunk of American steel painted red with a chrome air filter cover that reflected and distorted our faces as we stared in awe.

            “It’s got a classic four-twenty-six Hemi engine with factory superstock crossram intake and two seven-sixty Holley four-barrel carbs,” Dad said, as though he were trying to sell me the car.  “Combine that with a seven-twenty-seven push-button, automatic transmission and power everything and you’ve got yourself quite a ride.”  He looked at the salesman for approval.  “And I think it even has a classic-styled doorgate in the back, complete with power windows, right?”

            “It sure does,” the salesman said.  “You do know your cars!”

            The salesman slammed the hood shut and set the paperwork down on top.  His hand returned to Dad’s shoulder when he said, “Ready to sign?”

            “I sure am!” Dad took the pen from the salesman’s sports coat pocket without even asking.  The salesman pointed a cracked fingernail at the line where Dad’s John Hancock was needed.  I couldn’t believe it; I couldn’t let it happen.

            “Wait!” I shouted, raising the ire of the salesman again.  He looked like he wanted to pick me up by the hair and toss me into traffic.  “Aren’t you going to read the contract first, Dad?”

            The salesman was tired of my interruptions.  “It’s just the usual contract, kid!” he hissed.  He turned his attention to Dad, who was far more receptive than I was.  In a calm voice he said, “It’s just the payment info, the terms of the warranty, trade-in information…the usual.  It’s not like you’re signing away your soul.”

            I froze as Dad signed “James O’ Brien” on the line and sealed the deal.  The salesman gave Dad his duplicate copy and quickly pocketed the original.  Then he looked at me, winked, and spit his toothpick at my feet—he walked away the winner of the little battle Dad never even noticed was fought.

            “And you have the down payment?”

            “Yes,” Dad said, pulling out his checkbook, eager to complete the transaction.  I watched him fill out a check and hand it over.  I didn’t know what was wrong; I only knew I wanted to hit the salesman with a low blow to the groin, grab the check, and run like hell, screaming for Dad to follow me to safety.  But had I acted on my urges, what was about to happen in the following weeks would never have occurred.  In August of 1984, that station wagon became the O’Brien family’s savior!

            The salesman opened the door for Dad and handed him the keys.  He seemed in a hurry to get rid of us now that the deal was closed.  “She’s all yours, pal!  Ready?”

            “Just a sec.  There’s something I need to get from the old car,” Dad said. 

            He jogged over to his old, yellow, ‘74 Gremlin and cleaned out the glove compartment, stuffing his pockets full of the maps, napkins, and papers contained within.  He started trotting back, but stopped and turned back for the plastic Virgin Mary on the dashboard.  It wasn’t that my father was a religious man; he simply reveled in all that was tacky.  His weakness for buying useless stuff reached new heights when it came to cheap trinkets like wind-up chattering teeth, rubber gorillas, and plastic religious figures.  Few things are tackier than a plastic Virgin Mother leading the charge on the dash of an old American Motors Corporation masterpiece, like the Gremlin.  With a gentle tug, she came free and Dad trotted back our way.

            “Almost forgot this,” he said, holding the figurine up toward the salesman, who was visibly disturbed by its presence.  The salesman stepped back and away from the figure—Dad handed it to me.  “You want to do the honors, Buddy?”

            “Sure,” I said, taking the Blessed Virgin and climbing into the front seat of the Inferno.  I tried sticking Mary to the dash, but had no luck—she wouldn’t take hold.  I peeled off the fake leather from the Gremlin’s dashboard sticking to the bottom and tried again.  My fingers were sticking together from the cheap adhesive on the figure, but the damn thing wouldn’t stick to the dash, no matter how hard I tried; it was like something was repelling my effort.  I set Mary down and climbed out to tell Dad.

            “Did you get it?” he said.

            “It won’t stick.”

            “Are you sure?”

            “Positive,” I said.

            Dad slid into the front seat to take a look.  I saw him trying to move the figurine on the dash to no avail.  He poked his head out and said, “What do you mean it won’t stick?  It’s like she’s fused to the dashboard!”

            I climbed into the car as Dad shook the salesman’s hand and said goodbye.  I poked the Mary figurine and Dad was right—it wouldn’t budge!  I took a closer look and noticed the dash was faintly melted where Mary sat; she had won the first round.  Dad climbed back in, started the car, which turned over in a menacing roar of power beneath the hood, and we were on our way.  The salesman waved goodbye to me as we drove off, but I didn’t return the courtesy—even though I was an atheist, I felt more at ease staring at the figurine.

*          *          *

            The ride home was incredible—the car had everything imaginable!  The dash looked like the cockpit of a fighter jet, covered in switches, dials, and levers.  A big compass reminding me of a snow globe sat at the helm, beside the Virgin Mother.  The wood and chrome theme adorning the car’s body extended inside, and it really did have everything you could want—and more—just like the salesman promised.  It had cup holders that held far more than a standard commuter mug; anything shy of a gallon jug of milk was easily secured within arm’s reach.  The radio had an old fashioned dial that glided with ease when turned, and even in the sun’s glare you could easily make out what station you were tuning in.  Dad was overjoyed when he noticed the radio had not only a cassette player, but also an eight track deck to boot!  He would be able to assault us with choice cuts from his collection of bad eight-tracks: Ray Stevens, Boxcar Willy, and enough trucker tunes to make even Red Sovine want to claw his eyes out.  Yep, that car had every amenity imaginable, and enough foot and headroom that even Magic Johnson could stretch out in comfort.  I could tell Dad felt like a little kid, comfortably nestled in the oversized, cushy seats, while still having full access to everything a gadget-hound like him needed.  He ran his hand across the dash, almost in tears.

            “It’s beautiful, isn’t it, Michael?”

            “Yeah, Dad.  It’s neat.”

            He pointed to all the shiny dials and buttons.  “Look at everything.  I don’t know what they all do, but I’m dying to find out.  Why don’t you pull something, just for kicks?”

            I flipped a switch in front of me—the glove compartment popped open.  Dad took a quick glance, struggling to keep his eyes on the road instead of all the gadgets calling to him.  Something in the glove compartment caught his eye.  “Is that the owner’s manual?” he said, pointing.

            On top of some papers, a small red and black book with the Inferno logo poked out.  The cover of the manual was rather plain, displaying a black and white line drawing of the car, and some text.  “Looks like it,” I said.

            “What’s it say beneath the logo?” Dad was now paying more attention to the glove compartment’s contents, than the road ahead.

            I grabbed the book and read aloud: “‘And I stood upon the sand of the sea, and saw a beast rise up, having seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns, and upon his heads the name of blasphemy.  Revelation: Thirteen-One.’”

            “I wonder what that’s supposed to mean?” Dad said.

            “It’s from The Bible.”  

            “I know that,” he said.  “I’m just wondering why it would be on the cover of the owner’s manual.”

            “Don’t know.”

            “Weird.  We’ll have to hide it from your mother.  She’d crap if she saw that.”

            “Yeah.”

            Mom would have done far more than crap if she came across an owner’s manual quoting The Book of Revelation.  Mom made up for my total lack of religion, and Dad’s lax religious ways.  She was a superstitious, Italian Catholic who infused the faith with her own fears and anxieties.  Where Dad saw humor in things like plastic religious figures, prayer candles, and other tacky, religious collectibles, Mom saw them as a gift of God, sent down to protect the common man from Evil’s sinister and tempting grip.  Had Mom accompanied us to the car lot, she not only would have pulled Dad away at first sight of the salesman, but she would have returned with an army of priests, ready to do battle.  As religious as she appeared on the surface, however, I don’t think she fully grasped the lessons taught in a lifetime of Sunday masses.  She slanted Catholicism to suit her needs: she invoked Christ’s name whenever she needed luck at bingo, used God’s wrath as a scare tactic against me and my younger siblings, and felt that God had given her the power to personally damn anyone who annoyed her in the slightest manner straight to hell.  Was it any wonder I couldn’t buy into the whole religion thing?   

            I thumbed through the owner’s manual the last few blocks before reaching the house.  Page after page was filled with passages from Revelation.  Alongside directions for changing the oil, a description of a blood-red sea where all shall die; beside instructions for filling windshield wiper fluid, a message that Babylon has fallen; and if you wanted to learn how to add radiator fluid, you couldn’t do so without reading about Death riding a pale horse, first.             Dad was right, if Mom saw the owner’s manual, she’d lose it.  I shoved it deep within the glove compartment, under all the papers Dad transferred from the Gremlin and his pockets.  When we pulled into the driveway, Mom was waiting.  She took one look at the Inferno and was ready for a fight.

* * *

Surf music plays. A male voice says:

Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.

Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.

And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

This is Behind the Cut with Christopher Gronlund. The companion show to Not About Lumberjacks.

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

Behind the Cut is an in-depth look at the latest episode of Not About Lumberjacks and likely contains spoilers of the most recent story. You’ve been warned…”

* * *

The world is burning, and we’re all overworked and busy. At least it feels that way sometimes.

It’s seemed amplified in recent years: a world-wide pandemic, a change in the way many of us have worked…and those who don’t have the luxuries some of us have in our jobs, forced to risk their health and lives to make ends meet. (Or quit and figure out a new way to survive.)

At first, there were almost whimsical articles about how we’d all have time to write that novel…or do other things we always told ourselves we’d do…if only we had the time. But time is a weird thing when you see people getting sick and dying, and many of those people who told themselves they’d get to that passion project after their sourdough bread was done never did.

There’s no shame in that.

* * *

This might seem a rather maudlin way to open a behind-the-scenes look at the latest episode of Not About Lumberjacks, but if you’ve listened enough, you know Behind the Cut sometimes isn’t even about the episodes. As we look ahead to a new year, it’s natural to wonder what lies ahead…especially in a time when we’ve become used to not being as sure about things as it may have seemed we were before COVID and other things hit.

Last year was a productive year for Not About Lumberjacks. Listenership practically doubled, and especially near the end of 2021, episodes flowed. What’s easy to forget is that I didn’t release a thing until June, when “A Deathly Mistake” saw a return to regular stories.

I was writing, but like so many other people, finishing things seemed exhausting. Granted, I was also working on a contract basis after being unemployed for much of 2020, when the COVID pandemic started. A novel I had been shopping around demanded more time than short stories…until querying ran its course, and I went into the annual writing retreat with a friend in May knowing everything I’d written toward as an adult had changed.

The book I felt was my best shot at traditional publication had more partial and full manuscript requests than anything else I’d ever submitted—some by agents I dreamed about representing me—but was ultimately rejected with the typical response I often get: “This is wonderful—you’re a good writer, and this is an ambitious project—but…I’m not sure how I’d market this…”

And I get it: looking at the stories I’ve shared on Not About Lumberjacks, there’s no real unifying element…other than everything’s written by me. One month, I’m sharing a ridiculous story about friends fighting a demon made whole by the torments of their younger days…and then we’re in the woods of East Texas chasing an ivory-billed woodpecker. Hell, this year’s Christmas episode was all over the place.

So, it’s not surprising that once fantastic elements creeped into an otherwise literary novel I was shopping around that agents stepped away. (That, and just like the rest of us—many agents were overwhelmed by the state of the world; in fact, some later discussed how they ended up behind on things and did their best just to stay afloat. Taking care of existing clients in a changing world was hard enough without wading through queries on top of everything else.)

And because the novel that was passed on is the first in a series—and I am one more into writing what I love than what I think might sell—I’m not willing to set that story aside and write something more commercial.

* * *

I thought I was going to be depressed when the end came to submitting A Magic Life. I almost prepared for it, but it never came. And then I thought, “Well…give it time, it will…”

It’s not that I felt nothing when that end presented itself, but…I think part of the reason it didn’t hit so hard is I have Not About Lumberjacks.

* * *

There’s no other way I’d prefer to pay the bills than writing fiction. A perfect day for me is waking up and writing; then, puttering about after Cynthia wakes up, and hiking after breakfast. A nice lunch and then…more writing.

Writing novels was always the dream, but I also know most people who set out to write fiction full time never do. Some of the greatest writers who lived, who are alive right now, and who will write in the future do it all while maintaining a day job.

That’s another reason I think A Magic Life coming to an end didn’t hit like I expected: I have a good job. It’s obviously not what I prefer doing, but I work with a great group of people at a company that provides the most security I’ve ever had on my own.

Between work and knowing I can ultimately release A Magic Life (and all that follows) on Not About Lumberjacks, it was all a bit easier to take.

* * *

Last May was the first writing retreat with my friend, Deacon, that I didn’t work on A Magic Life. I worked on “A Deathly Mistake” for Not About Lumberjacks instead.

It’s not surprising that once I looked at traditional publication as a thing that wasn’t going to happen for me, I turned to the one thing I can count on when it comes to writing stories: this show.

No matter how weird or hard life might be at a given time (and the past couple years have definitely been different), I’m usually able to write and record a story for the show.

Even when the demands of my day job take priority, I can still find time to eke out the weird little tales I tell.

The end of 2021 was not just productive for Not About Lumberjacks, but “A Deathly Mistake,” “Calling Out of Time,” “Milkboy,” and “In Cypress Slough,” are among my favorite stories on the site. And they were all written when I was facing down the end of a work contract (and possible unemployment again), and then…while starting a full-time position in September.

* * *

I understand the past couple years have been a rough time to be creative. Some days, it’s enough just to get out of bed and make it through the day.

I spent most of the COVID pandemic hovering: waiting to see if this virus could be defeated and…waiting to hear back from agents if they were interested in the best book I’ve written to date.

It was agonizing at times…especially when the interest was there for A Magic Life, and it seemed like something more might finally happen with it.

But sometimes things don’t work out like we hope. A Magic Life faced rejection, and COVID rates began to climb again. Sitting still is good for only so long; it became clear to me that waiting longer wasn’t going to change anything. So, I wrote and recorded a story about Death collecting the wrong person, and that kicked off a great half a year of writing during a busy and turbulent time.

* * *

I don’t know what 2022 holds. I hope it’s the year COVID becomes a thing we largely tame with an annual vaccination, like the flu. I hope it’s the year people get back to selling books in person and that those sending stories around the traditional way see great things happen with them. And, of course, I hope those doing things on their own have a great year as well.

I do know—at least for me—that it’s possible to write and record stories I love during busy and choppy times. Six or seven episodes in 2022 is the goal for me, no matter how busy life gets. The time is there for the effort if I claim it, and the effort ensures there’s time—it’s a good cycle for me, and definitely one of the bigger things I plan to focus on in 2022.

Thank you for coming along…

* * *

And thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks and Behind the Cut. Theme music for Behind the Cut is a tune called “Reaper” by Razen. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the music, the episodes, and voice talent.

After writing and recording five episodes in seven months (well, eight stories if you factor in the recent Christmas episode), I’m taking January off. I have plenty of stories in various states of readiness, so we’ll all see what comes along in February…and the rest of 2022.

I hope we all have a great year, in spite of anything that may get in the way…

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!