#9 – Zürich
The car ride was not an adventure. It was so far from an adventure that it can be labeled the anti-adventure and be called the opposite to end all opposites. Midway, just crossing the borders between Wisconsin and Illinois, the A/C gave up the ghost and died. The rest of the trip was spent boiling in the car because Mom didn't want my hair to get messed up from the wind.
Dad had looked at her and said, dully, “She's going to be working on a farm. Her hair will be the least of her problems.”
“Still,” Mom insisted, and tried to smooth it down from her position in the front seat. What that 'still' implied I couldn't quite fathom. Dad was right, as usual when it came to competing with Mom, I would be working at a farm, in the hot sun, doing menial labor red-haired people aren't meant to. At least I don't have freckles, I figured.
Eventually, the engine began to cough viciously and Dad pulled up at a rest stop. Several men in raggedy cover-alls stained with oil and grease came up and talked to Dad. He looked about as confused as I did, which is saying something, finally gave up and said, “I'll give whoever can fix it one hundred dollars.”
I've never seen men run that fast anywhere, jabbering about sparkplugs, carborators, and whole-new engines the entire way to a swarm of rusty pickups. One guy, older than the rest of them but slightly less greasy, said, “Well, son, you ain't got to do nothing to it. Let it cool down, put some oil right here,” he pointed to a valve, “and let her rip.”
Dad did as he said and in less than ten minutes, we we're on our way again. The man smiled at us with black teeth as Dad gave him the money and left. The car ran better than it had in years and hadn't wheezed once by the time we got to Uncle Charles' ranch. Everything else, however did not go so smoothly.
A police woman pulled us over and, with the swagger that all authoritarian's held, slowly ambled up to the driver's door. Dad had everything out by then and lowered the window.
“Yes, officer?” Dad asked.
She looked down at him, a feat since she must have been at least four inches shorter than Mom, and said, chewing her gum obnoxiously, “Did you realize you was goin' sixty-two in a sixty-five miles per hour zone?”
“No officer, I did not. Must be why you pulled me over, right?” Dad asked her. I could see him clenching his teeth. Dad may have never hit a girl, but cops were a totally different ballgame.
“No sir. I pulled you over because of that fire hydrant you got in the back of your car,” She said, jerking her head in the direction of the back seat.
I looked around to find it only for her meaning to hit me full in the face. I glared at her darkly, leaned forwards, and opened my mouth to tell her what she could do with her tazor, gun, and badge all at once only for Mom's delicate hand and Dad's much larger one to cover it.
She continued on, lifting her dark shades to look at me with granite eyes, “You're going to have to put a hat on that head. The sun catches that right and your blinded for thirty, forty yards.” She lifted the top of her hair for her own bright, orange locks to be seen. She gave us a slow smile and headed back to her own car.
Mom rambled about how nice she was all the way to a tourist shop, saying that, although it was neither as bright, healthy, or curly as mine was her hair was nice. Dad and I then waited another thirty minutes for Mom to go through every hat in the store twice, trying to find one that looked nice on me. She finally said she couldn't do it and asked me to pick. I grabbed a brown fisherman's cap, paid for it, and shoved it over my head as we left.
It seemed ironic that my Mom couldn't have picked a hat in half an hour but my two second pull had resulted in a hat perfect for me; my skin didn't seem quite so pasty anymore. Or at least it was perfect for teasing.
Mom looked at me and said, “Glad it's in brown and not in khaki because you would have looked like Jonathan Lipnicki.”
I hated that guy. Jonathan Lipnicki is the richest red-haired bastard anyone's bound to meet and people always claim that if my hair was spiky, we'd be twins.
It didn't count because they said that to everyone who's hair was anywhere from auburn to strawberry blond. There's a big difference between all of us but hair equals George from Stuart Little. I hated that movie, too.
It seemed huge to me, filled to the brim by crops and maybe twenty large, but glossy beasts in the fields, not even lifting their heads from the grass. Three taller ones were also in the fields, much better looking from the distance In reality, the ranch was probably only four or five acres, but prime land. The day seemed to be still and even, nothing rippling or causing an effect in the steady life.
The sun was slightly less unbearable outside the car, but the light made my eyes hurt. I placed my arm over my eyes and tried to shield them but the glow from other objects hurt. It wasn't as bad as it was at home where the concrete would amplify it and beam it straight to the back of my brain. When I was able to see again I found my uncle and cousin shaking my dad's hand and hugging my mom.
When Uncle Charles approached me, he took my face in his surprisingly soft hand and arched my face upwards. He manhandled my head, peering at my eyes, my ears, looked at and around my head and finally said, “At least you don't have freckles. It's bad enough your hair can be confused with a traffic light and it'll spook the animals, I'm sure.”
He let go and headed into the house, one of his hands on my mother' back, the other with my suitcase, and his son following after a quick sneer. I shook my head and took my duffle bag and went after them.
Deviant Hearts Archive | Back to main index