How ‘Stupid’ Is Able To Sound ‘Sensible’

Yeah…I think I can do that…

Do you see the garage in the back yard? It was called a one and a half car garage. Not that anyone in the 1970s had a half of a car; but you could park a full size car in there and still have room to store your tools and lawnmower and your kid’s bike.

We had an electric garage door opener, which everyone in the neighborhood had, so it was no big deal, but it was quiet and made it easier to get your Sting Ray bike out of there if you needed to go out at 4 in the morning (a topic for an upcoming story. This story is much more stupid).

My oldest brother could talk me into just about anything. I idolized him, he was married and a professional man, so if he suggested, or worse, dared me to do something, it must be a good idea. Why else would he say it?

I was 16 years old and had recently received my drivers license. He stopped by the house just about every night on his way home from work to say hi, see my parents, and see what I was up to. He liked to hear my stories because most of them made me sound stupid. Personally, I thought they were pretty cool. Talk to any 16 year old; you’ll get what I mean.

This one particular night, my parents weren’t home so they had taken my dad’s car. The CADILLAC. Although I had my drivers license, there was a force field around that car that prevented me from getting within 15 feet of it. It was the weirdest thing.

My mother’s car was parked in the garage, and the garage door was open. My mother owned something that does not exist today, and for good reason. My mother owned a Ford Maverick.

The picture above is merely a depiction of the model. My mom’s actual car had more dents in it than a Titleist golf ball, and I believe I was responsible for most of them.

My brother saw the car parked in the garage, and with a serious expression (although I knew he was laughing hysterically on the inside), said to me, “I bet you can’t turn Mom’s car around without having it leave the garage.”

A challenge.

I smiled. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Well, the garage was large enough for a car and a half, and my mom’s Maverick was as close to a half of a car you could get. This challenge was near child’s play and my brother knew damn well he was dealing with a child. “No problem!” I grabbed the keys from the kitchen table and we went out to the garage.

As I remember it, my father’s set of golf clubs were the first thing to be knocked over. The garage door was open, but my brother stood by to make sure I didn’t cross the line. I backed up, and he picked up the golf clubs.

The slight sound of metal scraping brick was heard by both of us as I proceeded, but goddammit, I was gonna do it.

It was when the tools started falling off the wall that I first became concerned, but the car had so many dents already…

I looked at my brother and he was laughing so hard that he was gasping for air. I think I almost killed him.

I couldn’t stop then, because the Maverick was sideways in the garage. My mom would surely know she didn’t park it like that.

Sweat was soaking through my shirt and I was beginning to question my decision, but luckily I was 16 and I knew how to drive. The car didn’t have power steering and the muscles in my arms began to ache as I used the “touch method” to complete the task. But I did it, goddammit. I did it.

God that was stupid.

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