By Devon Mello
We watch the redheaded boy, too old for his mother’s hand, wander a bit away from his family to throw rocks at a seagull. The seagull is well focused on its meal, rotating only slightly to avoid an assault. The redhead reloads, licking his lips when a razor “HEY” pulls him back to reality. His father lets him know that what he’s doing is wrong and gives the patriarchal glare and hand-jerk to indicate “get your ass over here.”
The family walks through the thinning parking lot, navigating the CR-Vs and hybrids, searching for their own. The whole family is brunette, and tall, and I can’t blame the redheaded boy for his attempt at rebellion. The family loads their beach chairs and cooler in the trunk. Their bumper stickers ease our minds by letting us know we believe in science, and that we stand with Ukraine. My hands have been around the steering wheel for about 20 minutes now, while my father shuffles through music, asking if certain bands are cool.
The parking lot is empty now. Seagulls ravage the trash on the ground, the wind picks up sand. My father lands on a Death Cab song and asks if I still like them.
“We can try again tomorrow if you want,” he offers. I think of advancements in technology, how the occasional self-driving car runs over a child, or bursts into flames. I think of how I despise the billionaire personalities that profit off these products. But also how, despite my political leanings, I benefit from the leisure these corporations provide. This is the nuance in taking an Uber to a DSA meeting.
My father begins telling me about his week at work, at the boatyard. He massages his new tattoo on his arm, and I look through his gauged ear at the wrinkles on his neck, like rings around a tree. I’m trying to pinpoint when this new look started. I think about all I’ve accomplished in my 27 years—learning to drive shouldn’t be a marker of success. Happiness shouldn’t be just a lump sum of accomplishments. As if on cue, a group of teenagers pull into the beach parking lot. They step out of the car, giggling and passing around a case of hard seltzers. My father rolls up his sleeves to show off his tattoos, as if to align himself.
Germantown, NY 2015
I’m working on a piece for a college class. Something to do with cars. Something to do with the cars owned by people close to me. I’ve spent the day trying to get in touch with my father, but this is during the period we didn’t speak much. I’m seeking information on the type of car he owned (the car he totaled drunk, back when he was 20). He doesn’t call me back until later that night; I’m buying coke in a Stewart’s parking lot. I take the phone call while my friend and our dealer talk about the Knicks. I try to keep my ice cream from dripping. I asked my dad about the car he crashed. He responds, “Which one?”
The teenagers are walking over the sand dunes. The parking lot is ours again and my father puts on a Coconut Records song. The thing about my father is that he used to be cool. He used to drive some real hot cars (back when they were hot). He drove a 74 Duster, and a Mustang, back when they were affordable. He used to drink a whole bunch and drive those hot cars into trees and lampposts. He got clean at 23, same as me. He got sober about eight years before I was born. The first time he ever said “I love you” to me. I’ve never seen my father drunk behind the wheel, but I’ve seen him check Instagram while merging.
Tivoli, NY 2017
A more cautious friend once tried to teach me how to drive, but I talked myself out of it. I couldn’t hold a pen still because of my drinking, so I figured it wasn’t safest for me to grip a wheel. I started taking fish oil daily in hopes of improving my general well-being. I promised my friend that when the omega-3s did their job, I would be ready to drive. When the fish oil didn’t change my physical constitution immediately, I switched to turmeric, and clear liquors.
The seagulls have migrated to the parking lot. They form a magic circle, each hyper-focused on their meal of scraps and crumbs. My father has run out of songs, stories of his coworkers being dipshits, and he’s shifting in his seat. Same way he does when a holiday dinner goes too long, when someone brings up God, or death. He is ready for something to happen, for me to do something. I shift the car out of park and press the gas, jolting us momentarily forward, before remembering I didn’t check the rear-view mirror.
The ring of birds breaks. Startled by the jolt of the great and promising Honda. Within seconds they resume their feasting, as if to taunt me: “We know you’re a coward and won’t drive towards us.” My father prepares a witty remark, but then keeps it to himself. He told me it’s something he’s working on, keeping things to himself. He lands on this: “Driving can be hard.”
I stare forward, envisioning myself driving. Trying to create an image in my head of cruising down the coastline, wind in my eyes, listening to music. If I can picture it, then it must be attainable. The summer sun begins its descent to a purple glow. I haven’t spoken in a while; I should say something. Or at the very least clear my throat.
My father once told me about driving down to D.C when he was 19. He was following a girl. Nights they broke up, he would sleep in his car, knife in his hands. He told me about the car shop he worked at; the punk shows he saw. The ways he would find new spots to hide his car at night, falling asleep to the sounds of the city around him.
The seagulls eat comfortably here. I take pride in my sobriety, that I have my own health insurance, a one-bedroom apartment. My father turns to me “If you learn to drive then I wouldn’t be able to drive you around and we wouldn’t spend time together.”
We switch spots, my father behind the wheel, me in my spot looking out the passenger window. We breeze down the road, the ocean smell fading away. At the top of a winding hill, we come to a red light at an empty intersection.
“Some stoplights shouldn’t exist, that’s why I run them.”
~~~~~
Devon Mello studied Written Arts at Bard College and currently lives in Providence, RI working as a preschool teacher. Previous work can be found in SAND Journal, HASH Journal, and the Newport Daily News.