By Adam BressonSummer Bruin Columnist
My dad and I started our journey with the trunk of my Ford Tempo
bulging with all sorts of luggage, snacks and second-hand
furniture.
It was the summer of 1993 and I was preparing for my long drive
across the country with the first man to ever see me naked. Yeah,
that gave him the emotional upper hand, but I really hoped that the
trip would be a time of enlightenment for both of us.
But first, let me get this out of the way. This journey is not
going to be like "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" – much
less mystical mumbo-jumbo.
With that dispensed, my dad and I began to drive west from the
shady pines of Newtown Square, Penn. to Detroit, Mich., where my
father planned to "do a little business."
Now, I knew that my dad’s job had something to do with
electronics, and that maybe he might have even worked for Ford or
something, but what he did during the day while I was at school was
pretty much a mystery to me. So, as you could imagine I was pretty
darn excited to find out what was behind door No. 2 in Detroit, a
city known for … well … cars.
The journey began in the bucolic outback of Pennsylvania. You
see, the roads there just kind of meander through every species of
both evergreen and oak trees, and it can all be quite boring. In
fact, it threatened to put me to sleep a number of times. But I
found salvation in the rockin’ tunes my brand new car CD player was
pumping. Yeah, man, nothing like Credence Clearwater Revival.
I looked over at my father, who was hastily scribbling in his
business notebook. What was he writing? Probably some last minute
speech for the guys – a kind of Machiavellian pep talk to spur
competition. Or maybe just the names of local bars where he could
grease the Ford people.
Hey, maybe I could see the Ford plant! The birthplace of my
great Tempo! Yeah, all these plans were shooting through my head,
kind of like an automobile fantasy scene out of a bad ’80s comedy:
me wearing shades and striding in slow motion through the assembly
line waving hello to all the blue-collar workers. And then, in some
distorted perspective, my car looms in the horizon, the camera pans
around revealing the shiny contours in which Caribbean Green
blankets the Tempo. The music builds to a funky crescendo and I
enter My First Car, playing with the power windows. I turn on the
radio and drive the car out of the building to the raucous cheers
of Stanley, the door bolt guy.
Or maybe the plant would show my father flexing his corporate
muscles. I could watch my dad march down to the factory floor and
tell someone to paint all the cars red because, well hell, that was
his favorite color.
Instead, when we got to Detroit, my dad told me to drop him off
at the Ford plant, handed me 20 bucks and told me how to drive to
the local mall (yeah, Detroit has malls). I was devastated and I
almost cried except, what would the unionized factory workers
think? So my car and I slinked off the great Ford compound waving
goodbye to my dad, who was already waving hello to someone
else.
The Detroit mall was quite funny in that all the stores you
wouldn’t expect to find near one another were right next to each
other. The Gap was next to Cutlery Wherehouse and the Limited was
next to a sport fishing depot.
The mall caused me to ponder such wildly introspective questions
as "Why does the Gap here sell cowboy hats?" and "Would people be
mad if I screamed out the mantra ‘Buy Japanese?’" I don’t know, I
guess I just wanted someone to notice me … even if it was so they
could beat me silly.
Well, at 5 p.m. I picked up my dad. He told me that instead of
pounding out on the open road, we were staying overnight in Detroit
and going to get pizza with the guys.
These guys were Ford guys and they were kind of scary guys. They
were prototype salesmen romancing and schmoozing their way into
nobody’s heart with big smiles and bad jokes. One was named (get
this) Phil, and the other (heh heh heh) was Harold. They worked at
Ford but couldn’t tell me what they did because it was a secret. Oh
yeah, don’t reveal any of the details about Ford’s covert
operations in Haiti.
The sports bar was really sleazy inside. The kind of place with
pictures in the bathroom of women in bikinis holding frothy mugs of
beer and smiling, although you know that the glass is filled with
really warm beer.
The bar had darts and pool, and after a couple of games of each,
my father and I took off for the hotel to get some sleep before the
next day’s long drive to the Windy City. (Of course, Phil and
Harold continued to pick up on our waitress well into the wee hours
of the night.) Whew, quite a day of experiences.
I realized that my father actually was a very complex person –
although I still don’t know exactly what he does for a living.
Hell, if he does it in Detroit, it must not be all that
interesting.
Well, the next day we would be back on the open road listening
to some music and enjoying the scenery. There’s not much between
here and Chicago but refineries and trees, Dad told me. He was
wrong.
You see, there was Maria, that weird old guy who kept talking
about Joe Pesci, and Henry, the road worker/political commentator.
And, of course miles and miles of driving.
Bresson is a fourth-year English/American studies student who
wishes it were Sunday ’cause that’s his fun day.
Swinging with Dad and the big boys in Detroit