And we’re off

“And we’re off…” He said that every time he drove me to school, every time he drove me anywhere in his big red car with the cracked and yellowing white canvas top. The cloth skin of the ceiling inside had come off before I could remember, leaving exposed dark red dry foam rubber type stuff underneath. I used to dig my fingers into it, carving my name and smiley faces permanently there. He scolded me for it, a loud gruff voice that I ignored, and he laughed when the dust fell in my eyes and stung. “Serves you right!“

“And we’re off…”, he would turn and smile at me.

I don’t know why but this phrase bugged the hell out of me. “Don’t say it!” I would shout, “No!” The unfinished phrase would hang in the air, a storm cloud waiting to break, a spanking anticipated (“just wait until your Dad gets home!” )
“… like…” I would cover my ears and sing or shout “lalalalala.” I don’t know why but his words made my teeth clench, the same way the word “gross” for years made my somach churn, something about the glottal sound at the beginning of it, too close to the sound and feel in throat the second before puking.
Even through covered ears I always heard it.

"… like a herd of turtles!”

My mom told one of her friends or coworkers or whatever, “I told her how grandpa always tells you “we’re off like a herd of turtles.””

I looked up from my matchbox cars. “It’s ‘and we’re off.’ He says ‘and’ first.” The Dukes of Hazzard car - the General Lee - ran the VW beatle car off the road.

“She said ‘My dad used to say almost exactly the same thing!’ and she laughed until coffee came out her nose!” My mom giggled, a cup of clear liquor held cupped in both hands. “Her dad used to say ‘Here we go, like a turd of hurdles!’ Isn’t that a weird coincidence? Isn’t that funny?”

The police car gave chase after the General Lee.

“Doesn’t it make you think of turtle poop? Turd of hurdles! Ha!” She squawked like a bird.

Grandpa was at the wheel of the General Lee. I sat next to him, looked out the rear window at my mom driving the cop car. I faced front, turned up the Merle Haggard tape, shouted “go go go!”

“We lost her!” Grandpa jack-knifed the car from one dirt road to another dirt road. The cop car took the turn too fast, flipped over into a field. Grandpa stomped on the gas pedal, throwing up dust clouds behind us, banged the steering wheel. “Yeehaa! Sonofabitch! We lost her!”

One afternoon when a commercial came on during Rawhide I told him “I wish I could just live with you and Grandma, Grandpa.” My matchbox cars lay on the floor in front of the couch. My mom was at work. She used to work at UPS loading trucks. She’d told me once about a fight that happened there, where a man bit another man’s nose off. I thought of that every time she went to work, wherever she worked.

“You do live with me and Grandma, you little squirt.”

“No, I mean just you and Grandma.”

“You think we should kick out your mama? That’d be awful mean.“ Rawhide came back on.

"Do you think one of those cowboys would throw his own mom out with nowhere to go?”

“No, not kick her out. She could just move in with Burt or something.” Burt was Mom’s boyfriend who bought her fancy jewelry and bought tubs of ice cream whenever we spent the night at his place.

Grandpa put his arm around me.

“Things are hard on your mom right now. Don’t say that to her, okay?” The theme music came back on and we sang along “head ‘em up! roll’em out! rawhide!” The cowboys broke camp in black and white.

“Looks like they’re off…”

“No!”

“… like…"

“No Grandpa!”

“… a-”

“No-“

“herd-”

“No-“

“of-”

“No!”

“turtles!”

“No! No! No!”

He laughed. I growled through gritted teeth, punched his thigh.

“Hey!” He pointed at my face. Watch it, you.“ He held up his fists. “You don’t want to mess with me.” He shook one. “This one’s nickel.” He shook the other. “This one’s steel. If the one don’t get you, the other one wheel.”

“What?”

“I said this one’s nickel, this one’s steel, if the one don’t get you, the other one wheel.”

“Wheel?”

“Will. The other one will.”

“Will. Not wheel.”

“But wheel rhymes. I was saying will like wheel to make it rhyme.”

“Oh.”

“Get it now?”

“What’s nickel? Like a penny? Like money?”

“Pennies are copper.”

“I know. But you said one of your hands was nickel. Is it made of money?”

He laughed. “I wish it was made of money! No part of me is made of money. Nickel is a kind of metal that nickels the money are made out of. Steel is another kind of metal.”

“Oh so your one hand is metal and your other hand is also metal.”

“Yes. If you mess with me, I’ll get you, with my metal hands.”

“Are they really metal?”

“No. No one really has metal hands.”

“So then it’s okay if I hit you.”

“No. Don’t hit me.”

“Okay.”

“Good.”

“Sorry.”

“What?”

“Sorry. For hitting.”

“Oh, it’s okay.” He patted my shoulder.

We sat without talking for the rest of Rawhide. He sipped his bottle of beer. I sipped my bottle of pepsi. As the credits rolled, I heard the gravel crunch as my mom’s car pulled into the driveway.

“Look’s like your mom’s home. Don’t say that thing to her, you remember?”

I nodded.

“Come on, let’s go say hi to her,” he grunted as he stood. He held out his hand to me. I took it, pulled myself into standing, let go. He walked toward the front door.

“You give her a big hug.”
“Okay.”

I kicked the police car across the living room floor with my toe. It slid under the love seat into darkness and hit the wall with a thud.