Tuesday, July 17, 2012

The Inner Monologue of a Tired, Old, Fisher-Price Coupe

(A faded red and yellow Fisher-Price Coupe sits abandoned in the middle of a back yard.  Light rain has just started to fall.)

Hey!  Come back!  Don’t leave me out in the rain!

Damn…they left me.  Again.  Why do children always forget to put me away?  Honestly, is it so hard to put toys away before dashing back into the house to do whatever it is they do when they get inside?  I guess I should be thankful that I am finally going to get a little cleaner…that mud hole from this morning sure did leave a mess on my undercarriage.  And I’m quite sure we rolled through that dumb dog’s business a couple of days ago.  But still…it really sucks getting left outside in the rain.  If I had motor I could put myself away, but nooooooo…You don’t need a motor.  You’ll be pushed by little feet and the imagination of child drivers.  What a crock of shit.  If I ever see that stupid red coat again it will be too soon.  I tried to tell him that I needed a way to power myself.  I told him.  I said, “Santa, don’t you think I’d be a better car if I had a motor?  All great cars have motors.  How am I going to truly reach my potential without a motor?  You could even experiment with me.  Put in one of those power motors the elves have been using for that Power Wheels prototype.  I can take it.”  “Oh no,” he said.  “That won’t be ready in time.  Besides, my sleigh doesn’t have a motor.  I’m powered by the hopes and dreams of children all over the world.”  It took everything I had to hold my words back.  I wanted so bad to look at him and say, “Then what are the reindeer for…decoration?!?!” 

Geeze…that rain is really coming down now.  I hope the wind doesn’t pick up too much.  I hate getting covered in leaves and beat nearly to death by sticks.  At least I don’t have to worry too much about storm damage.  If those rough and tumble boys couldn’t take me out, I sure as hell aint worried about a little thunderstorm. 

Hmmm…I haven’t thought about them in a while.  The boys…my boy…I miss that boy.  Don’t get me wrong…these new girls are great.  They load me up with new treasures to carry, and we zip and zoom around the yard.  I love to hear them giggle, but it’s just not the same.  When the boys were little, my boy and those two neighbor boys, we’d spend hours together.  Forget the Three Amigos…we were the Fantastic Four.  I was one of the gang!  One boy would climb into the seat, and the other two would join forces and push me around the tree, between the swings, and even through that muddy place that always seems to be between the patio and the little hill that leads up to the trampoline.  The big people would scream, “Stay out of the mud!”  But us boys…we didn’t listen.  The mud was fun! 

Over and over again…they push me to the top of the driveway.  One boy would climb inside and prop up their feet on the front dash.  Then the other two would give a big shove and send us racing hard and fast down the driveway.  We’d coast a few seconds and then dash down the little hill.  Flying!  Soaring! Whizzing down the drive way.  In those first few seconds, I was Mario Andretti…zipping and zooming down the track at Indy.  The boy would make that funny noise that is somewhere between a gut-busting laugh and a terrifying scream.  He was so happy.  Honestly, I wanted to scream, too…only not because I was having fun.  I wanted to scream because I knew what was waiting for us at the end of the driveway…the gate.  That damn gate had to be kept closed so the dogs wouldn’t run away.  I didn’t mind the little dog…he pretty much left me alone.  But that big one…he was something else.  If I’d had my way, I would have opened the gate so that spotted dog would run away.  He kept peeing on me…like he was telling the world that I belonged to him.  To HIM!  Can you believe it?  A car for a dog…Horse hockey.  I don’t belong to no dumb dog.  I don’t belong to nobody.  Nobody except that boy.  Anyway, we’d race down the drive and then slam into the gate.  It’s a wonder we never got whiplash.  Over and over…shove, whoosh, crash!  I’ve never been so sore in all my life.  Man that was fun.

Once or twice me and the boys tried to race under that old trampoline.  We tried to dodge the jumping feet above our heads.  My boy would say, “Come on, I bet we can get all the way from one side to the other while Alicia is in the air.”  I tried to tell him that I couldn’t go that fast…I didn’t have a motor after all.  (Santa’s fault…not mine.)  But my boy was very sure of himself.  We’d wait at the edge of the black mat, and just as his sister would leap into the air for a backflip, we’d take off.  Not even six steps into our journey, the girl’s feet (and sometimes her knees) would slam into my roof.  She’d cry.  He’d laugh.  And then we’d hide…we had to hide quick so mom wouldn’t find us after Alicia went into the house to tattle.  We never did make it all the way under the trampoline, but it never stopped us from trying.

Sometimes, my boy would put on an eye patch, ratty pants, and a black hat.  He’d come out of the house waving a plastic sword in one hand and pretending his other hand was just a hook.  He’d climb in the seat, and we’d be off!  “ARRRR, Matey!” he’d call.  We’d sail the seven seas searching for ships to rob and treasure to steal.  He was the captain, and I was his mighty vessel!  He’d find treasures and load them into the cargo hold (under the back window actually).  We’d find new places to hide our booty (ha…booty) so that NO ONE would ever find it.   Those girls would come outside and scream, “Lewis, where is my tape?  I know you took it!”  I’d sit real quiet like…knowing all along that we had hidden that stupid New Kids cassette under a bucket in the sand box.
 

One day, my boy realized that his legs were too long to squeeze inside me.  He had gotten too big.  “This is it,” I thought. “I’m headed to the dump.”  But instead of carting me off, the dad did something else…something much worse.  He put me in the rafters of that big boat house at the back of the yard.  He stuffed me up there with the old junk that no one ever used.  He said they just couldn’t bear to send me to a new house…I was a special toy that had brought so many wonderful memories to their son.  I should have felt honored…I was special to them.  I had been a great friend to their boy, my boy really.  I should have been thankful.  But really…I was pissed.  What toy wants to be put up too high for any child to reach?  What good was keeping me locked away where no one could play with me?  “The boy won’t stand for this,” I thought.  “He’ll come out here and find me, and then you’ll be sorry.”

But he never came.  Not for me anyway.  He came for the grown-up sized water skis, the knee board, the big bed frame…and then one day he came with keys for the Jeep…the real Jeep.  The one parked just beneath me.  The one that had a real motor and big fat tires.  He climbed inside that real Jeep and started the real engine.  Then they drove off.  He drove off without me!  How could he?! 

He had grown up.  I decided then and there that never again would I belong to some stupid kid.  I’m too old for this crap.  All kids do is make you love them and then they leave you.  I’m not falling for those tricks again.  I decided I’d just stay up here in those rafters until the end of the world.  I’d show them that they should have just thrown me away.

But then one day, the boy’s dad came back out to the boat house (he had a few more gray hairs, but it was the same guy).  I heard him ask about me.  He was looking for me.  Suddenly, he pulled me down from the rafters, hosed me off, and put a little oil on my wheels. (Sad to say, but I had let myself rust away a bit.)  Anyway…he pushed me back out into the yard and called over a new kid.  A girl.  She kind of reminded me of my boy…skinny legs and a little clumsy.  The girl climbed inside and began to push with her feet.  Her tiny muscles weren’t strong enough to keep us going, so the man pushed us.  “Faster Pawpaw!” she called.  He pushed her all over the yard…around the tree and between the swings, but this time they actually stayed away from the mud.  Wimps.

“Are you having fun?” he asked her.  “This was Uncle Lew’s car when he was a little boy.” 

“Is he going to be mad that I’m playing with it?” she asked.

“No,” he said.  “Uncle Lew said you could play with it…he thought you’d love it just as much as he did.”

My boy.  My boy didn’t forget about me.  He saved me…saved me for the next round of little drivers to play in the yard.  Pretty soon a second little girl started coming out to play with me.  The other day she climbed inside and said, “Let’s go, Lightnin’!  We gotta save Mater!”  Now I’m not sure who Lightning is, but I bet I’m faster.  After all, I’m powered by little feet and the imagination of child drivers.

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