As summer set in, the daily cycle was always the same. Wake up with the mother of all hangovers, work at 7, inside my head, and my music during my work, which happens mostly alone. I pumped the skidokans on the beach 2 days a week and took care of odd jobs, vehicle maintenance, and, exclusively, installing and replacing street signs around the island.
During this time to think, I was trying to devise a plan to become mobile again. It was summer, and walking everywhere was getting very old. I was finally changing from the mold that I arrived in Port Aransas in. Island or no island, you could not get me to change my blue jeans, t-shirt, Frye boots dress code. But this summer, the island began to wear me down. Shorts, no shirt, no shoes. I would not be caught dead dressed like this, but now, I could walk a hot asphalt road, or a yard full of sticker burrs (something Port Aransas lawns contained: a small, star-shaped, pointy burr with the strength of a Lego).
As I was working on a plan to get a mobile, Jeri drove into the yard one day with the vehicle I most wanted to see again. Towards the end of our time working at the refinery in Corpus Christi, he had acquired a blue 72 Plymouth Valiant, a 4-door sedan. It was nothing to look at, but it did have the 225 slant six motor and transmission (more or less) that my Dart had. My Dodge had sat in the driveway since Jeri, and I rope towed it in from 18-mile road when the front ujoint dropped and destroyed the transmission, exhaust, power steering, and radiator on March 4th.
When he last had this, Valliant, my Dodge was still on the road. Shortly after, he sold the car, and then my catastrophe happened. A few times, Jeri mentioned that he might be getting the Valliant back. I heard a noise outside, and there they were, Jeri and Odette, they were bringing the Plymouth to me and dropping it off. It was in a bit rougher shape now. It was loud, and each side of the body had taken some kind of impact. The tires were bald, and the suspension was tired.
That was nothing compared to the interior. It had a blue vinyl bench seat in the front and back. But the front seat was just the metal springs; there was no upholstery or stuffing, just metal wiring, so there were two couch cushions on the springs. The driver's door had been hit, so it did not latch. However, a bungee cord was tied around the base of the steering column, and the hook could be attached to the driver's door handle to keep it closed.
In the dashboard, where the heater and radio used to be, there was a jagged hole in the metal. Through the hole, a white electrical plug hung out a couple of inches. To start the car, you would turn the key to the on position, then pinch the two plug prongs together. You could feel the jolt of 12 volts zapping you as the starter engaged and the car started up. It had an exhaust, but it did not sound like it did.
It was a Saturday. I was so grateful to have a car and for the kids being with their grandmother that I told D we could take a ride off the island. We got in, all excited for the adventure we were about to have. We stopped at the local Ice Box, gas, and convenience store and got gas and beer for the road. While I was fueling the car, I noticed something hanging down underneath. Curious, I reached under and pulled. It was the tailpipe. The entire exhaust came off with it. I walked it over to the dumpster and threw it away. This way, I did not have to worry about it falling off on the Ferry or on the road.
It sure was nice to be on the road again. We took the ferry to Aransas Pass, Ingleside, Portland, and finally northwest Corpus. I showed D where I used to work, and we found a dark spot looking across the bay at the harbor bridge. It was here that she talked, and I listened. She told me the most horrific stories that I would ever hear in my life. It was amazing to me that she was still here to talk about it. At most later points in my life, I might have recognized that she really just needed time on her own to sort it out. I was too young in the here and now to get it. I did not know how to support her, so I just listened.
We drove across South Padre Island Drive and into Flour Bluff, then north on South Padre Island, on 18-mile road, Park Road 53 as it was known then, right through the area where my Dodge met disaster in March. We got all the way home. I pulled into the driveway, adjacent to my Dodge, which was beautiful compared to this bomb we were driving. As I drove nose-first towards the passenger door and right-front fender of my red-and-black Dodge, I pressed my foot on the brake pedal, and it just swung effortlessly to the floor with no resistance at all. We slammed into the side of the Dodge and came to a stop, rolling back a little.
D jumped out of the car, cussing all the way. "I got my own two feet, I don't need this!" I was in shock. "I LOVE that car! Do you really think I would do that on purpose??? The brakes did not work at all!" From that day forward, I needed to keep in mind that every once in a while, the brake master cylinder would simply blow its seals, leaving no brakes at all, and I would have to "figure something out."
I did not have the money to pay someone to swap the transmission from this car into my car, so I took the easy way: I drove the Valiant. Despite its car from hell aspects, it sure beat walking.
We used it for everything, but pretty much stayed on the island now. D's sister and the so-called brother-in-law went everywhere in it, too. The only thing he was pretty good at was fishing. But, really, when you live on an island off the South Texas Gulf Coast, how could you not be?
He and I clashed constantly. He always said that he and I were with the wrong sister. His "wife" and I liked the same bands, and he, in a very immature way, used that as a way to make passive-aggressive statements that the opposite configuration would somehow work better. So much for him being an advocate for the ex-husband. Although I was criticized at every opportunity, never directly, but in an undertone. I was riding along with D, who wanted to help her pregnant sister. Deep down, I knew this guy was not worth a thought or consideration from me, so, in a strange state of duality, I balanced it against the times when he was outright up to no good.
He also had no problem riding in my car. He did actually complain about its condition a time or two, but I told him he did not need to ride in it and that his feet could take him anywhere he wanted to go. Of course, he twisted that around to mean I was insensitive for talking about putting his wife out and walking. I told him I was not talking about her.
He fished frequently and one time, stupidly left a fish in the car, in the hot South Texas summer sun. I finally had to take the car up to the Landfill and blast it with the Skidokan cleaner, which had a flashpoint of 74 degrees, using a 1-inch high-pressure hose.
I did all I could to keep the peace and was even helping the sister and so-called brother-in-law move into a trailer from some cottages they were living in. We made a couple of trips and were all done around an hour before sunset. We took a break, sat on the truck of the Valiant, drinking beer.
Suddenly, the Port Aransas Fire Department engine came in with its red lights on. They stopped and got out. "We have a report of a car fire." We looked around. "There's no car fire. We would notice that." Still, the firefighters walked around the cottages, looking around, when one of them suddenly pointed to the Valiant: "It's THIS car! It's on fire!"
I reached into the car through the window and pulled the release. They opened the hood, and sure enough, under the fuel pump, near the exhaust, fuel was dripping out of the weep holes at the bottom of the pump and igniting from the exhaust heat, setting the motor mount on fire. It was a small fire. One of the firefighters pulled the fire hose from the truck and blasted the engine with enough high-pressure water to put out a small building.
I felt this overkill was intentional. Defiantly, I closed the hood, jumped in the car, and wanted so badly to start it, give the helpful firefighters a friendly wave, and say "hey, thanks guys!" then drive away. Unfortunately, they got everything way too wet, and the car did not start till the following morning.
Because of this new issue, I decided to try to swap the transmissions one weeknight. We towed my Dodge to the City Maintenance shop, but by 11 PM, I realized I was way over my head and gave up.
To deal with the car catching on fire if it ran for 15 or more minutes, I kept a gallon jug of water in the back seat floor. Pull up to the Family Center IGA to pick up some groceries for dinner, shut off the car, open the back door, open the hood, dump water on the fire in the engine compartment, close the hood, put the water jug back in the car, and get groceries. It was the routine. Deep down, though, I knew that if I did not do something soon, I might not even have this transmission for my car.
The final straw was when the engine started to knock really badly. I was still driving it; it was still catching on fire, and there was a persistent fish smell I could never get rid of. I went and talked to a local mechanic I had met during my A Auto Supply days. He told me to bring both vehicles to him, and $300, and he would make the swap.
It was amazing to have my real car back again. But it still had no power steering. The exhaust was damaged in the drive shaft incident, and I was having electrical issues. Port Aransas was taking its toll, but this was still a thousand times better than the Valiant, which we towed back home and parked.
September was here, and as colossally messed up as my life was, it seemed to be getting better. Our relationship dynamic had not changed. At times, we did well, and looking back on that, I could easily see those moments through the lens that said D and I were friends. All the other times screamed that she needed to be on her own; ironically, so did I. But I was not ready to see that, and she did not have many options for a place to live with 3 kids, so she sort of needed me, too. She could have and would have figured it out if she had to, but this was sort of working for now.
I was so busy trying to stay ahead of my life that would disintegrate at any moment that I did not get to see my Dad outside of work very much. I still hung out with him and Brooke, but it was not nearly the way that it had been before Memorial Day weekend, when all of this insanity began.
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