The El Camino

I am sure the lurid, undefined nature of the El Camino with its yin (car) and yang (truck) beauty called to my dad. Husband of one. Father of 4. Yes, let’s count them: dad, mom, Jenny, Rendy, me, and Kendall. For the uninitiated, the El Camino came standard with one (1) bench seat. I am also sure my dad had thought he done good by bringing that faded El Camino home, with its seating for three.

“Awesome, dad! Is it a car or truck?”

“Doesn’t matter, son. Get in. Let’s go for a ride.” By this time, my three sisters and mom had filtered out of the house and the six of us stared at this OG hybrid.

I am sure my mom’s intent was to be supportive yet logical when she asked a rather fitting question, “How are we going to fit?”

With the silent conviction of a man who has just bought an El Camino for a family of six and has had roughly 14 minutes to drive it home, planning and lamenting on how to make everyone fit, he said, “I have a plan.”

“You, Leslie, hop in the passenger side. On your lap goes Kendall. Jenny and Rendy, come around to my side, and scoot up close to mom. Ok…there you go. Alright…”

I must admit at this point in the story that I was concerned, concerned for my safety and that of my siblings and mom. Dad, it would appear, was going to be fine as he had a set seat with the steering wheel and all. My second, more immediate concern was one of two concepts, either 1) my dad had forgotten that he had a son, or 2) he remembered and didn’t plan on bringing me. In my young brain, I couldn’t decide which was worse.

Seeing the growing consternation and alarm creep across my face, my dad sprung into a false enthusiasm I have never seen from him since, “You, Gordy Jr., will sit in the back.” The confusion and anxiety quickly multiplied – we live in Seattle. It rains every day, and I will get soaked if I ride in the back. Does my dad not care for my wellbeing? In the split second I had to think through the above with its corresponding emotional consequences, my young brain realized, no, my father did not want me to ride in the back of the car/truck. Nope. It was worse.

As I was walking to the bed portion of the vehicle, realizing my dad had a greater plan, his words rang out, “No, in the back, meaning behind the seat.” Now, there is something you need to know about the El Camino engineers. Before the age of the donut spare tire, all vehicles came with a full-size spare. Since the El Camino lacked a proper trunk and was too low to put the spare tire underneath, the engineers waxed bold and welded an incredibly sturdy bolt on the back wall that separates the cab from the bed. On said bolt, the spare tire was secured.  However, the spare tire for our El Camino was not in place, striking a decades-long debate: Did my father buy a car without a spare tire, or did he remove the spare tire as he scrambled for a six-seater plan? Ni modo, the fact remained…there was not a spare tire, and I was to occupy the space.

In storytelling, details are crucial. Too little details and the story is flat. Too many, and the story can be too cumbersome.  With that said, I went into the detail above for a very simple reason, The Bolt. While the absence of the spare tire did create a displacement wherein I could fold myself, The Bolt still existed. When sitting upright, my head would careen between the back of my father’s seat and The Bolt upon every turn and pothole. The Bolt was temple level. Yes, the soft, fleshy part on the side of my young, still developing skull.

Had the result of my dad’s yin yang decision been merely to my physical detriment, I might have been willing to share in his enthusiasm for the El Camino, overlooking the skull crushing nature of The Bolt. But no, for during the El Camino years, which corresponded to the intense developmental period of my life, I had no idea where we were headed. At any given moment, we could have been circling the block; I wouldn’t had known. Each time we got in the car/truck, it was a faceless adventure. The seat pushed back, cocooning me into my own terrarium of musty floorboard, old work gloves, and the ghost smell of a previously placed spare tire. While the fortuitous family members with seats sat with eyes upon the journey, mine was a lonely passage where time and distance traveled became my mind game of choice, kneeling with The Bolt temple-striking me to the beat of off-balanced tires.