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Raising a son like me must have been tough, but being alone was a much harder chore.  Ironically, now that Dad had retired, he was the one alone most of the day while Mom worked, but somehow he didn’t seem to have as much of a problem finding things to do around the house.  Maybe it was that inherently male thing that allows us to get along autonomously without social interaction that kept Dad busy.
    Or maybe it was the long “honey-do” lists that Mom gave Dad every week.
    “So where’s Dad?” Claudia then asked Mom.
    Though Dad owned two trucks, he spent more time with the less reliable of the two, a 1975 Ford Wrangler.  In Texas there are two kinds of men: Chevy lovers and Ford lovers.  Leave it up to Dad to come up with a third option--a Chevy lover who nonetheless owns a Ford as well, just so he can prove to Ford owners just how screwed-up their trucks really are.
    One of the favorite pastimes we shared as father and son was coming up with new and more creative acronyms, which included such gems as:  Fix Or Repair Daily; Fast Only Rolling Downhill; Fails On Race Day; Found On Road Dead; and his personal favorite lately has become: Foulin’ up Our Retirement Daily (though I’m sure that the word “foul” wouldn’t have been his first personal choice).
    He wore his martyrdom like a badge of honor and worshipped in the two-car temple of oil-stains every Saturday and Sunday morning, cursing at the top of his lungs every time someone within earshot passed on the street just to get his point across.  This morning I believe he was completing air-intake manifold transplant surgery and was just closing up.
    Claudia folded her arms and watched him for a good sixty seconds before he noticed that he had an audience.  “Laudie Laudie, it’s Claudie.”  He scooped her up in his arms and, after he’d set her down, gave a single swat to her bottom for good measure.  After he had done it, he must have realized from the blush on her face that such displays were past the age of acceptability for a sixteen year old girl, because that was when he really started in on her.  He asked her about the boy situation in DFW and about whether or not she had a boyfriend yet, etc. etc.
    Dad was never the type to alter his personality for appearances sake.  He would have said, “I am who I am and who my father was before that.  If someone doesn’t get me, then that’s their problem.”
    Just the same, the spectacle of my father teasing a teenage girl just because he knew her well enough to know what bugged her embarrassed me, so I decided to take the opportunity to go spot-clean my car.
    A 1978 Pontiac Grand Prix.  Cadillac Green.  V-6.  A/C.  Power windows.  AM/FM Cassette.  Oh, I even had a 10 CD changer installed in the trunk in July.  My baby.  My first car.
    “What the hell is this?”
    I turned to find Claudia scowling at me.
    “This is how you’re getting to Austin and, if you stop right now, how you’ll be getting back home.”
    Claudia stuck her head inside the cab and wrinkled her pointy little witch nose.  “What’s that smell?  Is that hot sauce?”
    “I’m getting it.  Just hold your horses.”  I grabbed up a handful of taco wrappers and shoved them into the garbage bag I was carrying. 
    Before I could stop her, Claudia sprayed something into the seat cushions.
    “Hey!  What are you doing?”
    She held up the can of Secret deodorant.  “Strong enough for a man but made for a woman.”
    I stuck my nose into the headrest of my imitation velour seat.  One whiff and I cringed.  “Oh yeah.  This is much better.” 
    “It stinks!  I’m not riding in a stinky car!”
    I begrudgingly collapsed behind the wheel, making a conscious effort to breathe through my mouth.  I lowered the windows.
    “I guess you know that we’re going to have to ride all the way to Austin with the windows down now.”
    As we drove away, I glanced up in my rear-view mirror and caught a parting glimpse of Mom