EXCERPTS
In The Beginning | Who Was That Masked Man? | The Gang's All HereChapter 3: In The Beginning
Mom liked to leave little notes on my pillow whenever we had an argument about something. We'd have real screaming matches about the war in Vietnam; racial strife and protests that were happening all over America; the way I treated my family; the length of my hair; drinking milk directly from the carton; just about anything. It's said of children and parents that the acorn doesn't fall far from the tree, and while there were times I was certain my mom was a real nut, I have to admit that we share certain characteristics that often made life in the Ritter house seem like a scene from One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. Sometimes the arguments would get a little harried, and usually when I felt I was losing the fight, I'd pull out my, "I didn't ask to be born" defense. She'd just counter with her, "I didn't ask for you either" retort. Neither of us would apologize to the other, not in person anyway, so I'd come home and find a note pinned to my pillow saying that she was sorry that we fought, but that she'd only said what she did because she "loved me so much and wanted what was best for me." It was actually a pretty good system; it gave us the night to calm down, so by the morning, we could just resume our normal life of staying out of each other's way.
Dad was the calming factor. Not that he'd get involved in any argument Mom and I were having; he'd just lay low until he'd reached his breaking point, and then tell us both to shut up. It worked every time. That's the thing about calm people, when they finally do blow up you know you've crossed the line and it's best to tuck your tail between your legs and beat it out of the house. Dad was definitely the disciplinarian, but he never raised his hand in anger. All he'd have to do is glare at us from under those dark, scowling eyebrows and mutter, "Damn it, I'm sick of this." That's when we knew it was time to cut our losses.
I don't remember Dad ever smacking any of us kids no matter what we'd done wrong. Wait, I take that back. Once, when I was in the sixth grade, I got a "C" on my report card, and Mom insisted that he spank me to drive home the fact that they expected better from me.
Dad grudgingly complied, marching me into my room and closing the door behind us. I was really nervous ... I'd never been "sentenced" to a spanking before, and visions of woodshed tactics filled my head. Now, even though I was only twelve years old, I was already almost six feet tall, so the simple logistics of bending over Dad's knee for a spanking challenged some law of physics. Dad didn't say anything for a few minutes, just stood and looked out of my bedroom window. I sat on the bed feeling like a complete idiot and wondering what was so wrong with getting a "C" in the first place. I'm sure even budding nuclear scientists get the occasional "C" in grade school.
Finally, Dad broke his silence. "You know, Michael," he said softly, "I really hate having to go through this." Oh, no, he was going to give me the "this hurts me a lot more than it hurts you" speech. "I'm sorry, Dad," I whimpered.
"Yeah, me too," he continued, as he walked over to the bed and sat down beside me. I prepared myself for the worst.
"You have no idea how much I ... don't want to spank you."
Huh?
"But, you know your Mom, if I don't go through with it she'll never give me a moment's peace."
I sat there for a moment, motionless, trying to figure out what the old man was thinking. Perhaps there was some room for negotiation. The more important thing here seemed to be Dad's desire to keep Mom happy, not the need to punish me for daring to be average. As I racked my brain for a possible compromise, Dad suddenly spoke. "Well, I guess I don't have any choice, Michael. Hand me that book on your dresser."
Now wait a minute, Pop, I thought, pleasing Mom is one thing, but smacking me with a book is something else!
I slinked over to my dresser, picked up the book, and handed it to Dad. "Okay, chief," the old man said as he gently fingered the back of the book, "it's show time."
As I closed my eyes in anticipation of tears, Dad continued.
"When I hit this book, you yell out so your Mom will be satisfied, and I can go watch the news."
I opened my eyes and stared at the old man, a puzzled look on my face.
"Look, Michael," the old man continued, "I'm not saying it's okay to get a "C" on your report card—I just don't agree that it's a capital offense. I will tell you this though, buddy, these grades will look a lot better next report card or I'll really have to hit you where it hurts."
Who cares about the next report card, I thought, just as long as I get through ...
"I'll take you down to the barber and have your head shaved."
My head shaved! I'd rather get hit with the entire set of encyclopedias!
Dad and I performed our "mini soap opera" as Mom, I'm sure, listened intently at the closed door. After a few rounds of him smacking the book and me letting out a whimper or two, Dad left the room telling me to "straighten up and fly right" because next time "will be a lot worse," I waited a few minutes before walking out to the kitchen where Mom was busily making dinner. "Don't come crying to me, Michael," she said. "This is between you and your father."
Right. And we planned to keep it that way.
And so it went. My parents are like a balancing act ... Mom's the high wire, and Dad's the guy trying to get across it without busting his ass. I always felt just a little sorry for my old man as he tried to maneuver his way through a minefield of kids, while trying his best to keep Mom happy. It wasn't easy. It's said there are two kinds of people in the world, those whose glass is half empty and those whose glass is half full. Dad's an optimist ... half-empty or half-full doesn't matter to him; hell, he's just happy to have a glass. But Mom views life as an obstacle course, a series of hurdles that stand between her and a peaceful, happy life. To her credit, she never gives up, and the more barriers she encounters, the more determined she is to jump over them. And even though she makes anyone within earshot miserable while she runs the course, I think she secretly loves the challenge and thrives on the victory that awaits her at the finish line.
My folks are as different as night and day, but in some strange way that fact seems to be the cement that bonds them together. Dad was the tenth of fourteen children, and shared a bed with three brothers in a small, run down house in East Peoria, Illinois. His was a staunchly conservative, Catholic family who believed in hard work and accepted life as it came. The family had no indoor plumbing for most of his life, so the simple act of taking a bath was a major accomplishment and, in a house with so many people, left little room for modesty. His father worked on the railroad and made very little money, so Christmas presents were limited to an orange, a few pieces of candy, and the occasional small toy or new pair of socks. Dad quit school and went to work when he was sixteen, to help out the family, so while his contemporaries were sitting around the malt shop sipping sodas, he was busy loading cases of Coke onto trucks. It would be natural to build up some resentment under those conditions, but Dad never did. That's just the way it was ... griping about it wouldn't change anything.
By contrast, Mom had one brother who was ten years her senior. Essentially, she grew up as an only child in a nice, middle class neighborhood in Keokuk, Iowa. Her father, Gentry Koch, was a draftsman at the local steel plant, and was as meticulous about his appearance as he was about his work. Her mother was a former schoolteacher turned housewife, who spent her many free hours trying to organize the city of Keokuk to fit her own vision of utopia. Mom lived a "Bobby soxer's" life, running around with her girlfriends, dating the basketball team, and pretty much doing whatever she liked ... or could get away with.
My parents' planets converged one summer day in 1953. She was a Junior in high school and he had just joined the Air Force, in an effort to avoid being drafted into the Army. Dad was visiting Keokuk with a cousin of his when he spotted Mom sitting on a stool in the local drugstore. Actually, I'm certain she spotted him, and had one of her girlfriends set up the introductions, but it was love at first sight, whatever the details. With his long, slicked back black hair, Dad had a dangerous Elvis Presley quality about him, while Mom's freckled face and good nature struck an innocent Doris Day chord. They hit it off immediately and, within a few days, Dad handed Mom his ring and asked her to marry him.
As the young couple wrapped themselves in Romeo and Juliet magic, a dark cloud was forming on the horizon in the shape of my grandmother. Although Mom was used to getting her way, this was one time when her mother was not going to sit idly by and let her daughter "make the mistake of her life." She insisted that my mom give the ring back and concentrate on finishing high school.
Dad was devastated. In a few weeks, the Air Force was sending him to Shemya, Alaska, for a year, and he just knew he'd never see his beloved girlfriend again. He left Keokuk and returned home to Peoria, throwing himself across his bed and crying for hours at the prospect of spending his life without the girl of his dreams.
But my old man was determined. He hadn't asked for much out of life, and he'd be damned if the one thing he really wanted was going to be denied him. Obviously, the only way to my mom was through her mother, so he spent his last free days endearing himself to his human barrier to happiness. Now, my old man is a charming guy ... not manipulative, but charming. He doesn't even realize how charming he is, which makes him all the more so.
Over those few short days, my grandmother realized that Dad was an honest, good hearted soul who would rather cut off his arm than do anything to hurt anyone, and she gave her blessing to the marriage ... with a few stipulations. If this was true love it would stand the test of time, so she agreed that if the two of them still felt the same way when he returned from Alaska, she would not stand in their way. It was one of the happiest moments of my old man's life ... which was followed a few days later by one of the saddest, when he left his teary-eyed sweetheart and caught the train for the first leg of his journey to the frozen north, a thousand miles away.
While Mom spent her Senior year of high school spinning my old man's ring around her finger and dreaming of the future, Dad lived among the seals and walruses, pining for the day when he'd return home to the girl he loved. That day finally arrived. In September, 1954, Ray Ritter and Peggy Koch tied the knot and, with twenty dollars to their name, started laying the groundwork for what would become a family of seven, and a life filled with adventure and surprise. They must have been really anxious to get started ... I was born the following July.
Chapter 8: Who Was That Masked Man?
"Show me some I.D."—words every military dependent hears countless times a day. Those little, green, laminated cards were being flashed more often than a woman on a New York subway. The military is real keen on confirming ownership of its people, and required the hall pass from Uncle Sam be shown every time one of us entered the base. The Military Police, in their white hats and gloves, would stop us at the guard station, check our I.D. cards and, like St. Peter at the Pearly Gates, make sure we were on the "A list" before granting permission to enter. It was a pain in the ass at times, but I have to admit a certain feeling of security in the knowledge that our boys in blue were busily keeping Ramstein Air Force Base safe from democracy.
But every September, security took a backseat to politics when the Air Force hosted its big Air Show and threw open the front gates to anyone who wanted to enter the base. The military would stage an "our guns are bigger than yours" extravaganza, and invite the German population to come for a firsthand look at why they lost the war. Jets screamed through the sky, tanks lined the flight line, and people of all ages and nationalities played on the instruments of destruction, like monkey bars in a playground. The display was really quite amazing, and I often wondered if any Russian spies were among the throngs of spectators, clicking away with microcameras while they gulped down good old American ice cream with tiny, flat, wooden spoons.
Attendance at the Air Show wasn't required, but most definitely encouraged, so I did my patriotic duty and joined the gawking hoards, strolling through the rows of armaments like shoppers at a flea market, hoping to pick up a great deal on a slightly used rocket launcher. I was busy listening to some airman explain the intricacies of an M 16 when I noticed Hank and two girls standing at the front of the hangar, motioning me to join them. I'd never been too fond of Hank. He was one of those really intense guys who took life way too seriously, but he was alone with two girls that I didn't recognize and, never being one to pass up an opportunity, I started walking toward them.
A beaming Hank met me halfway. "Hey, Ritter, how 'bout helping me out with one of these girls?"
Sounded like a reasonable request, and certainly the best offer I'd had all day, so I countered, "Maybe. Who are they? New kids in school?"
"No, man," Hank smiled as he placed his arm around my shoulder. "They're German chicks, don't speak hardly any English at all."
Hmmm ... sounds like a fun date, spending the day teaching basic English to two German girls. Think I'll go back to the guy fumbling with the M-16.
"And they want us to go to a party with them tonight," Hank continued.
On the other hand...
"But, there's a rub." Hank laughed.
Okay, here it comes ... I knew this was too good to be true.
"You have to pretend that you're somebody else."
"Who?" I indignantly responded.
Hank took a deep breath and whispered: "This guy who died last year."
Now, I've pretended to be a lot of things in my life, and I do have the ability to shovel bullshit with the best of them, but impersonating a dead man was a new role for me and I was going to need a little more information before committing to the part. "I dunno," I frowned, "don't you think they'll catch on when they see me breathing?"
"No, no," Hank continued. "They don't know he's dead. They just know he was in a bad motorcycle wreck last year.
"And ...?" I pressed.
"And, we're going to tell them that you went back to the States for a year, you had plastic surgery, and now you're back."
Oh, this sounded like a good plan. What could possibly make them suspect our sincerity? Just because I don't look like the guy, or sound like the guy, or know anything about the guy...
"You know, Hank," I grinned, "the fact that they're German doesn't necessarily make them stupid. I know you speak fluent German, but I don't, so there's every possibility that this will blow up in our faces, and I'll be left standing there looking like an idiot. Maybe you should get yourself another boy."
"No, no," Hank insisted, "I already told them you were John—you know, the dead guy. It's gotta be you. Come on man, it'll be fun. All you have to do is nod your head a lot and agree with everything I say."
"I won't know what you're saying," I retorted, "and that's the least of my problems with this plan."
"Aw, c'mon Mike, show some balls. Just play along and who knows, you might get lucky. John had a thing going with the tall blonde," Hank added, as he pointed and waved in the direction of the two girls.
"What!" I exclaimed, "John had a thing going with the blonde? Have you lost your mind? There's no way she's gonna buy this."
"She already has," Hank assured me, "and she told me she can't wait to pick up where the two of you left off. Just look at her; she's gorgeous."
I couldn't argue with that, and since the quickest way to a teenage boy's brain is through his pants, my reluctance quickly evaporated and I agreed to help Hank with his little charade.
As we approached the girls, I could hear them hurriedly whispering. Hank made the introductions. "John," he began, which caused me to glance around, already forgetting who John was. "Oh, John," he continued, jamming me in the side with his elbow, "this is Ingrid ... and I'm sure you remember Gerta." Gerta was a truly breathtaking girl, with shoulder length blonde hair and deep brown eyes. She smiled and said something in German as she reached forward to give me a big hug.
I didn't respond. How could I? I had no idea what she was talking about but, judging by the look on her face, it was obvious that I should have. I gave Hank a confused squint, and he quickly said something to her in German. "What's up?" I whispered. "Not to worry," Hank smiled, "I just told her that, as a result of your accident, you've lost all memory so you can't remember how to speak German."
"John spoke fluent German?" I shuddered. "Not a good detail to leave out, Hank. And besides, how is it I remember English?"
"Be cool," he responded. "She's buying it."
And from all indications, she was. Gerta's sympathy grew as Hank recounted my various afflictions resulting from the "accident"—loss of memory (which covered all lack of knowledge about everything); loss of all my hair (which, I guess, sufficiently explained how it had gone from blonde to brown); and, drastic face reconstruction (which seemed to please her immensely ... this John guy must have been a real bowser). "But, you okay now?" she asked, in broken English. "Oh, yeah," I lied, "all the scars have healed."
The four of us strolled around the Air Show for the next few hours, examining the weapons of mass destruction while "remembering old times." I spent the majority of the afternoon nodding my head and smiling like an idiot, until the girls indicated that it was time for them to go home and prepare for the party.
"Okay, then," Hank said in German, "we'll see you tonight."
This flimflam had disaster written all over it, and as Hank and I said goodbye to the girls I knew I was buying a first class ticket on the Hindenberg.
Chapter 7: The Gang's All Here
Three weeks earlier, I had purchased a 1959, light blue Volkswagen Beetle from an airman who was being transferred back to the States. There was no driver's education class at our high school, probably because the military was anxious to prevent a bunch of American kids from wreaking havoc across the German countryside. But the old man called in a favor, and I got my driver's license without so much as a parallel parking test. In retrospect, it seems really crazy that my initiation to the world of driving took place on the German speedway known as the Autobahn, but at the time it was a ticket to ride, and I didn't ask any questions.
Learning the rules of the road was important, but my more urgent task was to transform an old VW Beetle into unique and stylish transportation. So, my buddies and I took my new car to an abandoned hangar to which Dad had access, and spent the time leading up to the first day of school turning a beat-up VW into what would become known around the base as the "Cream Machine." We pulled out the engine and replaced it with one from a smashed Karmen Ghia that we'd found at the junkyard; painted the car green with yellow racing stripes that ran across both doors, created "mag" wheels, with the use of some silver spray paint, and topped it off by decorating the driver's door with a large decal of a sultry, topless woman. I took some sticky, white shelf paper that Mom had around the house, carefully cut out the letters needed to spell "Cream Machine" and adhered them to the back window. Subtlety was not in my vocabulary; I was out to make a statement, a semi pornographic statement to be sure, but a statement nonetheless. The car still ran like a '59 VW, but it looked good and, as we all know, an ounce of image is worth a pound of substance.
On the morning of the first day of classes, we had all decided to meet at the Youth Center and caravan to school—a parade of broken down cars filled with teenagers, who were themselves filled with joyful anticipation and far too many hormones. One last look in the mirror, a quick trip upstairs, and I would be on my way.
My brother and sisters were sitting around the kitchen table, slamming down Cap'n Crunch cereal and picking arguments with one another while Mom was busy throwing sandwiches and Hostess cupcakes into brown paper lunch bags. "My, don't we look hot to trot this morning, Michael," she grinned, from behind a small mountain of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. "Planning on having a good time today?"
"Yeah, Mom," I grunted, "I may be a little late for dinner. Have you seen the hairbrush?"
"You're worse than a damn girl," Mom replied, wiping her hands on a dishrag. "It's probably in the bathroom, right where you left it."
It was ... it always was. I had only posed the question to deflect any interrogation about why I'd be late for dinner. It was a preemptive strike; over the years, I'd gotten quite astute at taking a right turn around conversations I'd rather not have.
"What do you mean you'll be late for dinner?" Mom queried, as she followed me down the hall.
It didn't always work.
"You know," I said, brushing my shoulder length hair, "first day of school and all. I'll want to sit around with my friends, compare notes, check out the new chicks."
"Now listen, young man," Mom interrupted, "this is your last year of high school and it's important that you make the most of it."
"I plan to." I smirked as I examined my reflection in the mirror, checking my face for blemishes.
Mom wasn't amused. "I mean study, crack a book now and then, don't do anything stupid that will cause any trouble for your father and me."
"That's the most important thing isn't it, mom," I shot back, as I walked into the living room. "You're just concerned about how you and Dad look, aren't you? Don't worry, I won't do anything to embarrass you. And if I do, I'll lie about my name."
"Oh, yeah," she said, pointing toward the front window, "like everybody doesn't know who you are. I can't believe you're actually going to drive around in that brothel on wheels out there."
"It's called style, Mom," I responded, "you should try it sometime."
It was a shot that landed way below the belt. You could call my mom names, question the way she raised her kids, even set her dress on fire, but never, ever, challenge her sense of style. She pouted. "I've got more style in my little finger—"
"—than I have in my whole body," I interrupted. "Yeah, I know this routine. Look, Mom, I don't have time to do this right now, so I'll just say you're right, I'm sorry, and I'll see you later tonight."
"Don't forget your lunch," she hollered, as I walked out the door.
Lunch? You've got to be kidding me!
I bounded down the stairs, through the parking lot, and jumped into the Cream Machine. The car hadn't come with a radio, but I'd rigged an old AM/FM cassette player under the front seat, so I turned on the morning tunes. This is going to be great, I thought, inserting the ignition key. Look out, K Town, Michael's on the move!
Rrrrrr ... rrrr ... rrrr ... the car shuddered as the engine tried to kick over. C'mon baby, I thought, don't fail me now. Not today. C'mon baby, you can do it, you can do ... my mental pleading was answered by a loud "pop" and black smoke billowed from the rear of the car. Aauuughhh!
I got out of the car, threw open the hood, and was quickly engulfed in a plume of smoke and gas fumes. Mad as hell, I kicked the rear bumper and cussed my decrepit, albeit highly-stylish, set of wheels. The gang would be converging at the Youth Center, while here I stood, up a creek without a paddle, on the first morning of what was certain to be the best year of my life. Shit!
"That's quite a style you've got going there, Michael," Mom laughed from the balcony. "Maybe you could just wear it to school." I ignored her, not an easy thing to do under the best of circumstances, and got back in the car, to ponder my predicament.
My pensiveness was shattered by a knock on the car window, and I looked up to see the smiling face of my sister, Cyndy, peering at me from the other side of the glass. "I'm on my way to the bus," she said. "Want to walk with me?"
Perfect, I thought, double humiliation...a broken down car, and walking with my sister to the bus. C'mon God, gimme a break here! But, as I sat on the sheepskin covered car seat, which was shedding all over my new jeans, I remembered the best thing about owning a VW ... they were very easy to jumpstart.
"I've got a better idea, Cyn," I sweetly smiled, as I got out of the car. "How 'bout I give you a ride to school?"
"On what, your back?" my suspicious sister asked.
"No ... in my car. Just imagine how all your friends are gonna react when they see you drive up in the Cream Machine on the first day of school."
"They'll think I lost my mind over the summer," Cyndy responded, backing away from the car. "Besides, it's not even running, and ... oh, no, I am not pushing you and this stupid car all the way to K town, Mike. No way!"
"No, no," I chuckled, putting my arm around her shoulder, "I'll push us to that big hill that leads to the Youth Center. All I need you to do is sit behind the steering wheel and pop the clutch when I tell you to. When the engine kicks in, just hit the brakes, then I'll take over and drive you to school in style."
"I don't know," Cyndy said hesitantly. "Sounds kind of dangerous. I think I'll just take the bus."
I could see my dream of arriving at school in grand fashion slipping away, so I resorted to the tactic that always seemed to work on my good hearted sister ... pity. "Okay," I whined, "I guess it doesn't matter if all my friends think I'm a loser. I don't really mind being laughed at all day," I continued, with my head bowed, dejectedly leaning on the car. "The important thing is that you feel safe."
"Oh, God," Cyndy sighed. "Alright, alright ... but I know I'm going to regret this."
"No you won't," I said excitedly, as I opened the car door for her, and bowed at the waist like the Queen's chauffeur. "Your chariot awaits, Madame."
"Chariot, huh?" Cyndy muttered. "I'd feel a lot better if horses were attached to this thing."
"Not to worry," I insisted, placing my hands on the front of the car. "Just put it in neutral, so I can turn it around."
"Where's the shifter?" Cyndy asked, checking out the steering wheel.
"There, on the floor, next to your leg," I responded, as I tried to hide my impatience.
For the next few minutes, the quiet morning was shattered by the sound of grinding gears, as my sister tried to shove the gearshift into neutral. "The clutch," I yelled, running around to the door, "step on the clutch. Damn, you're gonna kill my transmission!"
"Look, don't have a cow!" Cyndy yelled back. "I told you I didn't know how to do this! If you scream at me again, you can just ..."
"Okay, okay, sorry," I cajoled. "Here, let me show you."
Following a quick lesson on clutch/shift dynamics, I resumed my position at the front of the car, and gently pushed until it was facing the right way. I walked around to the driver's window to find Cyndy, her hands gripping the steering wheel, a look of terror on her face. A kind brother, a considerate brother, would have realized how frightened his sister was, and blown off the plan, but...
"Piece of cake, huh? You ready to get this show on the road, now?" I asked my scared stiff sister.
"Uh huh," Cyndy murmured, her eyes glued to the steering wheel.
"Are you sure?"
"Uh huh."
"You're not nervous, are you?"
"Uh huh."
"You trust me, don't you?"
"NO."
"Look," I coaxed, "all you have to do is sit there, and when I tell you to, throw the shift into first gear and ease your foot off the clutch. The car will do the rest. It's really simple, I promise."
Slowly, I pushed the Cream Machine down the street, and stopped at the top of the hill that led to the Youth Center ... my rendezvous point. In the distance, I could see the parking lot where my friends were waiting for me.
"Okay, Cyn," I hollered from my position behind the car, "this is it. Remember to hit the brake after the engine kicks in. Are you all set?" Through the rear window, I could see the back of Cyndy's head, nodding her readiness.
Ideas only become bad ideas in hindsight; but, even an idiot should realize that a plan which calls for an inexperienced driver to careen down a hill, with only the vaguest notion of how to work a car, isn't a very good strategy, still ...
"Here we go," I yelled, while giving the car a big shove, "don't forget to hit the ..."
The car flew down the hill like it was shot from a cannon—a green and yellow streak, wildly lurching all over the road, and sending dogs and small children running for cover. I listened for the sound of the engine, but heard only the panicked screams of my sister, which were fading with the rapidly increasing speed of the car. "The brakes!" I yelled, as I bolted after the car. "Hit the brakes!"
I chased my beloved car and screaming sister as Cyndy hurled down the hill like a ski jumper out of control, bouncing over potholes, and swerving to avoid oncoming traffic. "The emergency brake!" I panted. "Pull the emergency brake!" But, Cyndy continued to rocket down the hill, and was quickly approaching the four way stop that stood in her path.
Oh, God, I thought, please let her find the emergency brake before she gets to the intersection. Mom will be so mad if I get my little sister killed!
I stopped and shut my eyes, waiting for the sound of crushed metal, as Cyndy closed in on the intersection. To my amazement, she hit the crossroads at just the right moment, making it through without even a scratch. The car hit the bottom of the hill, and began to slow down as it climbed the upward slope on the other side of the intersection. I watched in wonderment as Cyndy carefully took the turn into the Youth Center parking lot, and the car limped to a halt in front of my now hysterical friends.
"Been giving driving lessons again, Ritter?" someone laughed, as I jogged breathlessly into the parking lot. "Really trying to save on the gas, huh?"
I stumbled over to my car and found Cyndy inside, visibly shaken, her hands gripping the steering wheel. "Are you okay?" I gasped. "Why didn't you use the emergency brake?" Cyndy didn't say a word, as she turned and glared at my red, sweating face. "Well, why didn't you pull the emergency brake?" I repeated. "You could have wrecked my car, you know."
"Oh, the emergency brake," Cyndy calmly replied, while slowing releasing her hands from the steering wheel. "Is that what ... this is?!" she bellowed, as she grabbed something that was sitting on the seat beside her, and thrust her hand through the open car window. And there it was, my emergency brake handle, with wires dangling from it like strands of spaghetti.
"You broke my emergency brake!" I yelled.
"I'll break your neck!" Cyndy shrieked as she jumped from the car, wildly waving the detached brake handle above her head. "I could have been killed! This car is a piece of junk! How could you ..."
"I didn't know ..." I cried, while trying to avoid being batted with the brake handle. "Besides, you made out alright. Next time, I'll ..."
"Next time! Are you crazy?" Cyndy yelled, throwing the dismembered car part to the ground, and storming off in the direction of the bus stop.
"I'm sorry, Cyn," I hollered after her. "Don't tell Mom, okay?"
My friends gathered around my "D.O.A." car, laughing and making jokes. "Nice wheels, Mike," Rob chortled. "Just like the car Fred Flintstone drives. Who needs an engine ... you've got one sister power in this baby."
