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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.
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.
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