And Then We Got Upsot
A Holiday Breakdown Story
I desperately needed a little Christmas in 1995. That December, I wrapped up my sophomore year at SUNY Purchase: since I had left Bard College in the spring semester, my college career was out of sync with most students’ calendars. I learned from my mistakes at Bard and brought along a ten-year-old gray Ford Escort that I bought for cheap from my friend’s mom. To afford the car, I landed an off-campus job at a local Toys R Us, and, later, an on-campus job in the Residence Life office. As you likely know, the toy industry (just like the liquor biz) makes eighty percent of profit in the last two months of the year, and I had worked a dizzying amount of hours processing returns and managing cashiers from the Customer Service desk. The dorms closed on December 23rd, and I had to explain to my manager that I could not work on Christmas Eve because I had nowhere to stay. I had to head home home.
I assumed he would hang up on me. That’s what I would have done.
But he didn’t.
I set out that morning after loading my winter break necessities into the Escort. Purchase is about a three-hour drive from Clinton, right near the Connecticut border. The fastest route north proved to the Taconic State Parkway, a terrifyingly curvy “highway” through the woods, and then I could get on the Thruway near the town of Catskill using the Rip Van Winkle bridge. I chose a cassette tape from my music case (brown pleather covering, held twelve cassettes) and popped it into the stereo I had Jerry rigged to two over-my-budget speakers in the door panels. I had to advise front-seat passengers to watch out for the wire when they clambered in. When I turned the volume up, I could feel the woofers puffing air at my left leg.
I cruised along the Taconic for about half an hour, passing exits which were now familiar to me. Thankfully it was a cold but clear day, and the surrounding woods were Christmas card-perfect with fluffy snow weighing on evergreen boughs. Suddenly, a column of gray steam streamed from the hood over the rear view mirror. The Escort’s engine shuddered. Then it chugged again.
A familiar panic flooded my body. Since my dad was a MacGyver-level mechanic, I had owned several small, old cars held together by rust, string, and chewing gum that inevitably died or fell apart. I could make a thick coffee table photo book called “Places I’ve Broken Down.” This car had performed so well, relative to previous vehicles! I had made it to work on time and puttered around Westchester all semester.
Ugh. Not again.
I pulled into one of the entrances to FDR State Park and found a wide shoulder where I could park in safety. I popped the hood and coughed through the billowing smoke. My radiator glowed bruise-red.
It was overheating. Damn it. Not that I knew anything about fixing cars. I had refused all lessons offered by my father, aside from changing a tire. I could handle that. But a radiator? That was out of my depth, and in its current state I would likely suffer huge blisters. I remembered hearing that back in the day, people used to carry buckets of in their cars to douse overheating radiators. I started to throw handfuls of fresh snow onto it, and stepped back as more steam rose from the roasting metal.
I carefully packed as much snow around the engine block as I could, then closed the hood. Maybe I could keep doing that all the way home. There was plenty of water at the right temperature all around me!
Not only could I not make it home after all, but I made it barely another half hour. A line of angry horn-wielding holiday travelers gathered behind me. I had my hazards on as I puttered at thirty miles per hour on one of the most twisted highways I knew. Once the snow melted around the radiator, steam turned into smoke once again.
I had more than a hundred miles left on my journey home. I was fifty miles from college, now closed for winter break. I had no credit card and less than a hundred bucks in my bank account. And definitely no AAA. (I am shocked when I consider that I went for years and years with so little available cash and no emergency credit card for tow trucks or roadside help.) My options were severely limited. Welcome back, nauseous breakdown-induced panic.
I pulled off at an exit labeled Hopewell Junction and meandered to a Stop and Shop parking lot. A grocery store meant pay phones! Luckily I had a few quarters in my car. I called my mom for help…advice…something. She uttered a noncommittal sound and said exactly what I did not want to hear. “Call your father, he’s the mechanic.”
“Can you come get me?”
“Not really. And what would we do with your car? You can’t just leave it there.”
“I don’t know, I just want to get home. It’s Christmas.”
“I dunno either. Call your father.”
She gave me the number for his workplace. I had not spoken more than a handful of words to him in over a year, mostly the word “no” as he pleaded with me to talk to him through doors or windows. After my parents’ separation, I wanted nothing to do with him. He had broken our family apart, and no amount of his groveling could fix things for me.
I assumed he would hang up on me. That’s what I would have done.
But he didn’t.
“So where are you?”
I told him as best I could with as many details as I remembered. I didn’t know the area very well, and not all exits off of the Taconic were bilateral. I knew the sign said Hopewell Junction, and I took a right off the highway as I went north. As luck would have it, there was the Stop ‘n’ Shop just around the bend.
“OK, I’ll do my best. Just stay there.”
What choice did I have?
Dad estimated that he would be there in an hour. My dad always ran late, and surely that had not changed in a year. Plus, it was definitely not a single hour, more like two. I had time to kill, at the very least. I hung up the phone and wandered the store in search of snacks. I bought a bottle of raspberry lime soda (Clearly Canadian was big then; I can’t remember if I bought that brand, but it was that or a knock-off clear, bubbly, sweet drink) and some short of cookie. I figured that a little sugar high was appropriate in these circumstances. I took my sugar out to my car, got my book out (probably an E.M. Forster as I was really into him that year) and started to read. And drink, and eat. I devoured the packet of baked goods in no time, though I nursed my soda carefully. I didn’t want to have to go back into the store to have to use the bathroom.
After a while, the cold but cloudless December weather seeped in to my car cabin. I considered running the engine for warmth, but I didn’t want to ruin the engine more, even though its problem was excessive heat. Better safe (and chilly) than sorry. When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I climbed out and retrieved my sleeping bag from the back. Since I had so little income (and what money I did have went to CDs and food) I used an unzipped sleeping bag as a comforter. My decades-old sheets had belonged to Grammie Anna, worn thin but soft over the years. None of the sheets matched, and I didn’t have a fitted sheet. I simply tucked one flat sheet around the mattress and hoped visitors would ignore the faded roses and 1970s graphics. By this time, my maroon sleeping bag had a rip where the stuffing escaped. It was the only blanket I had, so I had packed it to bring home for the winter break. Once cocooned in it behind the steering wheel, I felt warm and cozy, and the cookie lunch made me feel extra comfortable.
Then the sugar high wore off. My head grew heavy, and, despite the comings and goings in the grocery store parking lot, I nodded off. I could not resist, and there was no better way to pass the time after a very busy exam week, scads of hours of overtime at the store, and an overheating vehicle.
I was awakened by sharp noises near my left ear. My dad tapped on the glass with his knuckle. I had been in such a deep slumber that I was annoyed at being awakened, then remembered that his arrival was the end of my wait.
“What are you doing?”
“Waiting.”
“I mean, in the sleeping bag.”
“Staying warm.”
“Why didn’t you go into the store? Or ran the engine?”
This was the first time I had seen him in person in months. He looked the same. Same mustache, same hair. Same beat-up shearling-collared jean jacket.
“Pop the hood.” I did, and he went to examine the engine while I burrowed back into my cocoon. A few minutes later, he dropped the cover. “I’ll be right back.” He headed for Stop ‘n’ Shop. As if I had somewhere else to go, or a way to get there? I drank more of my soda, and realized that I had to pee. Badly. I had to follow him to use the public restroom.
I found my dad at a slim rack of car accessories near an endcap. He held two small cans in his hands, and he was comparing labels. This is how my dad always shops. Grocery shopping with him took hours and hours. He reads every label, slowly and thoroughly. He explained once that he examined them for nutritional information, but I later learned he really was calculating price per serving. “What’s that?” I asked.
“Radiator repair fluid.” He said it like it was obvious, that everyone knew that such a thing existed and was available on supermarket endcaps. “I think this one will work.” He put one back and went to the register.
“I’ll be back soon,” I said, turning to look for the bathroom.
When I got outside to the car, he poured the little can of mercury-like liquid into the radiator. “You could have done this yourself.” He tapped the remaining fluid out and screwed the cap back on with a grease-stained rag.
“I didn’t know there was such a product,” I said.
“And I didn’t know if they’ve had it. I thought I’d have to find a nearby auto parts store.” He slammed the lid again. “Start ‘er up.”
The Escort started immediately. “Let it run for a few minutes.” He handed me the empty vial of metallic gunk. I glanced at the label myself. Seven dollars. He got back into his truck. The sun began to set, and customers had thinned out. I tried reading once more, but it was a struggle in the fading light.
So my dad had left work, driven an hour and a half on a toll road on a gamble that there would be a can of this junk at the store or near where I was stranded. If any other store were nearby, I didn’t see one. And he had come without knowing exactly where I was, even, or how to find this particular Stop ‘n’ Shop, even though I had avoided contact with him for months. Yet again he had flown by the seat of his pants on the assumption that things would work out, somehow. And he had been entirely right.
After a time he emerged from his truck and indicated for me to release the hood lock again. I got out to take a look for myself.
The engine belts rattled loudly and the wiper fluid pipe shook, but the radiator was still cool. “What was that stuff?”
“It’s a fluid that coats the radiator’s insides, fixes small leaks and holes. It’s not permanent, but hopefully it will get you home so I can do a better fix later on.” He closed the lid again. “Let’s give it a try.”
“How far do you think it’ll make it?”
“We should make it all the way back to Clinton. I’ll be right behind you. But let’s avoid the Thruway. If you break down there, we’ll have to use one of the preferred tow truck companies and they charge extra for Thruway accidents. Don’t go more than fifty-five, just to be safe, and stay in the right lane. I don’t want to lose you. When we get to Route 23 after the Rip Van Winkle bridge, head to Route 20 which will take us to Waterville. And you know how to get home from there.” With that, he got back in his truck.
Since my engine was still running, I shoved my book and sleeping bag in the passenger seat and taxied to the parking lot exit. I wanted to get the car as close to home as I could while it was running.
I have had plenty of white-knuckle drives in my time, and this was merely another one except that I wasn’t anxious because of the weather, my vision, or excessive traffic. This time I willed the car to keep going through the darkness. Whenever the RPM needle fluctuated even a little, I panicked. My armpits were damp and by the time I reached Catskill my fingers ached from clenching the steering wheel. I cranked the thermostat, hoping to syphon off as much heat as I could. I was too nervous even to listen to a cassette of music. If the engine faltered, I wanted to hear the death rattle. Typical central New York cloudbanks brought light flurries, and I could only tell that my father followed by the shape of the headlights behind me. My own wonky headlights lit up two circles of the familiar white-and-black winter road and its snowbanks. We were going so slowly, comparatively, that drivers streamed past easily. When we got onto Route 20, a normal two lane road, travelers had to swerve into the oncoming lane to pass us, and they did so without hesitation.
When we got to Waterville, I turned right on Route 12 and was surprised that my dad’s headlights turned too. I wasn’t exactly sure where he was living at that point, but I had imagined that he would continue west. Instead he followed me all the way up Paris Hill, and then down towards New Hartford. I thought for sure he would keep straight on towards Utica, but he also turned onto Brimfield Street.
Within a few miles, I was home again, and pulled into our lower driveway. I noticed he had stopped on our street with his blinker on, so I pulled in my car further. He idled behind me. I got out, my hands relaxing at last.
He rolled down his truck window as I approached. “Guess we made it.”
“Yup. Glad I bought the STP brand. I’ll come by and look at the radiator in a few days. After the holiday.”
“OK.”
He started to roll up the window.
“Thanks,” I mumbled swiftly and turned to gather my bags.
“’S’allright,” he said. He nodded and put the pickup into reverse.
I hurried inside, and found my mom and brother Jacob watching a Christmas special by the light of the small artificial tree. I went to the kitchen and scrounged up a meal of cereal and cookies. More sugar. Slowly, with a trembling stomach and sore hands, I told them the story during commercial breaks.
“Mom,” I said, “how did you know he would help me?
“It involved a car. I figured he couldn’t resist.”
My dad did look at my Escort a few days later, and found nothing wrong with the radiator. The fluid he had poured in at the grocery store had cured the problem well enough, despite its simplicity and low cost. There was little he could do to make it better, other than replace the radiator.
The bigger repair was in our relationship. Though we would never be best friends, I did let him into my life a little more. I even met Patti, “the other woman,” and visited their new apartment. I could not stay red-hot with anger for the long term, and my mother was moving on with her life too. She had started making teddy bears and art again, and her business was thriving. Without the constraints of marriage, and with two fewer kids, she had more time to work, and her productivity peaked.
In the face of such a selfless act of kindness, after my harsh year-long rejection, it was impossible to continue to despise my dad. And I found it easier to let him in a little bit. He had finally done something that was “classic dad,” the way most fathers would do for their kid: the roadside rescue. And he had done it without asking for something—money, time, affection—at all. It was a first step at rebuilding a connection. Apparently to listen to his side of the story for once, I needed him to show me, without words, that he had not given up on the idea of us.
I just needed a little something—a small bottle of silvery liquid—to fix the crack.
This week’s song: Driving Home For Christmas by Saint Etienne