Continental Divide

For as long as I could remember, Grandpa always had a big car. Not just any car, a Lincoln Continental. Cadillacs were for pimps and gangsters. A Lincoln exuded luxury and the American dream. At the time, the American dream involved waiting for “even” or “odd” days based on the numbers on your license plate in order to get gas.

That was the 70’s; the epitome of American excess was owning a gas-guzzling behemoth you were allowed to fill every other day and at least half of the tank was used to get to and from the gas station.

None of that mattered to my grandfather. The car was his freedom; his life. His cars evolved in size in direct relation to his age. The older and more diminutive he became, the larger the cars grew. If you watched Grandpa climb into his car, you were reminded of Noah disappearing into his ark.

Grandpa was a long stretch from a wealthy man. His Lincoln was the only luxury he ever permitted himself. Nana was a silent accomplice. Every few years he would purchase a used model to replace the previous one which was invariably on its last legs. Detroit’s handiwork was light years away from the quality of their European contemporaries.

Salesmen salivated when they saw my grandfather coming. A sale was a foregone conclusion. Being able to unload the behemoth painted in the sallow ochre, olive green, or pinecone brown was the real challenge. I was convinced the salesmen had a pool to see who could sell the most offensive-colored car, knowing they could talk him into it with the lure of a “discount.”

The last Continental I remembered was a midnight blue with a white roof that always reminded me of a killer whale. It was easily the size of one.

He was 82 and shouldn’t have been driving. Nobody had the heart or the balls to tell him otherwise.

The extent of his driving was taking Nana to the beauty parlor on Saturday mornings and then a weekly trip to the market. He spent more time washing the car than driving it.

I spent every other weekend with my grandparents. After the trip to the beauty parlor, we would go to White Castle for lunch. Sitting in the cavernous back seat of aquamarine leather I realized that other than Nana, I was the only one who ever saw Grandpa drive.

As we took to the road, his hand flitted like a moth from the radio dial to the air conditioning, and the rearview mirror. He flipped his sun visor down, up, and down again before settling back on the wheel.

“Hey Pops, you ok there?”

“Oh, he’s fine. He doesn’t always have control of his right arm since the stroke.”

I swallowed a gasp that knotted my throat.

“I help him see if anything is coming from the right,” she added with pride.

Grandpa and I locked eyes in the rearview mirror.

We reached the beauty parlor before I could say anything. The car brushed the curb like an awkward teen’s first kiss.

With Nana out of the car, I jumped into the front seat. I said nothing as he pulled away from the curb.

I remained silent when we pulled into the White Castle parking lot and he almost clipped a biker in the crosswalk he never saw.

In the drive-thru line, Grandpa adjusted his sunglasses, grabbed tissues, turned the heat on, off, and changed the radio station. Several times.

He misjudged the distance to the pick-up window and couldn’t reach the order. My Grandpa and the acne-riddled teen worker created a suburban Sistine Chapel fresco; God and Adam’s hands outstretched but never touching.

By the time we picked up Nana, I had aged decades. I alone knew the truth about Grandpa’s driving. The responsibility fell on me to tell my parents. I would be the one to take the keys from his hands.

At their house, we ate in tense silence. Nana was oblivious to all. Ignorance was indeed, bliss.

Grandpa finished lunch and went outside to wash the baby orca. He didn’t wash the car; he massaged it. Parked it out of the sun and under a pear tree that was part of the original property.

Their first kiss was under that tree. It was where he promised her that one day he would buy the property and build her a home on it.

Before I could head outside to talk to him, Nana stopped me.

“The car is his life.”

“But Nana-“

“Take away the car; you take away his life. And mine.”

She knew. She knew everything I thought and felt.

I was mesmerized watching him scrub the car. It was the closest thing he did to exercise and he looked nimble.

The more I stared, the younger he looked. Wrinkles softened and faded. His hair thickened and grew darker. His moves were fluid; defined muscles emanated a joyous rebelliousness to them.

He looked up at the window and smiled at my grandmother and winked at me.

She beamed back radiating love. Her freshly done hair was no longer tucked in a scarf, but tied in a loose ponytail which sashayed with energy.

“The car is our life,” she said once more before rushing out the back door and into his arms.

They kissed under the shadow of the pear tree and he lifted her in the air playfully, before opening her door with a dignified flourish.

As he walked around the car, the tail fins grew in size, the chrome became more pronounced and garish; the whitewalls dominated the tires.

Even the tree seemed to grow in stature. The canopy became fuller and more robust; pears burst with promise.

Grandpa looked at me once more and winked before he drove away.

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