Put on your seatbelt
It’s Thursday afternoon and my father and I on our way to the gas station to fill up the tank because it's only a quarter full. We’re on our way to pick up my mother at my sister’s place because she’s been taking care of my two nieces for the past few days.
After the gas has been pumped and the bill paid, my father enters the passenger side of my car and sits down. He begins to pull on the seatbelt while squirming. He pulls on the belt and pulls on the belt. I can see that he’s getting frustrated.
“Take your foot off the brake,” he says while looking down at the tunnel where my feet are.
“It’s not on the brake.”
He continues to squirm.
“I said take your foot off the brake.”
“It’s not on the brake. See?” I say as I move both my feet even more to the left.
“Ugh.” He continues to squirm around in the seat. He pulls on the belt, then lets it go. He pulls on the belt, again, and lets it go. He repeats this several times. “The problem with these belts is they make them too short.”
“The problem isn’t because it’s short. The problem is because you’re fat.” I look down and lean towards the clasp, but it’s hidden underneath his coat.
At that moment, I hold the clasp with one hand as he pulls the belt over and snaps it into place, making a click sound.
“There. Are you done? Are you ready to go?” I ask. His automotive gymnastics took approximately five minutes from start to finish.
“Yes. Come on, let’s go. We’re running late.”
Just before I pull out of the gas station my father says one more thing:
“And, don’t speed!”
Fuck. It’s going to be a long ride.
After the gas has been pumped and the bill paid, my father enters the passenger side of my car and sits down. He begins to pull on the seatbelt while squirming. He pulls on the belt and pulls on the belt. I can see that he’s getting frustrated.
“Take your foot off the brake,” he says while looking down at the tunnel where my feet are.
“It’s not on the brake.”
He continues to squirm.
“I said take your foot off the brake.”
“It’s not on the brake. See?” I say as I move both my feet even more to the left.
“Ugh.” He continues to squirm around in the seat. He pulls on the belt, then lets it go. He pulls on the belt, again, and lets it go. He repeats this several times. “The problem with these belts is they make them too short.”
“The problem isn’t because it’s short. The problem is because you’re fat.” I look down and lean towards the clasp, but it’s hidden underneath his coat.
At that moment, I hold the clasp with one hand as he pulls the belt over and snaps it into place, making a click sound.
“There. Are you done? Are you ready to go?” I ask. His automotive gymnastics took approximately five minutes from start to finish.
“Yes. Come on, let’s go. We’re running late.”
Just before I pull out of the gas station my father says one more thing:
“And, don’t speed!”
Fuck. It’s going to be a long ride.
Authored by S at 12:00 am
5 Comments:
That's what you get for driving a piece of crap for a car. You need a real car, not a Fred Flintstone car.
Your father-son bonding excursions are heartwarming. The love between the teo of you is palpable, filled with mutual admiration and respect. We all should be so lucky.
I really hope you just turned the music on and tried to ignore the fact he was there. That's why I don't travel with my family we'll have the same situation happen to us.
parents are strange.
I'd love to have been a mouse in the back seat watching. You've made me laugh! About A Boy is right...parents are indeed strange!
Too funny! Parents, ya cant live with em and ya can't shoot em. Or at least you shouldn't lol.
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