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April / May 2006 Contest Results |
Young Eyes
By
Cindy Small, Alabama
Extreme anxiety
can be caused by living with a mother who viewed an automobile as an
item of entertainment rather than a convenience.
The whispering
pink giant with a monster front was her 1958 pale pink Cadillac
convertible. This behemoth had exceptional importance in her life, as if
to say, “I’m moving you, -- period.”
My mother was
also the only driver in the family and would have lain before an
18-wheeler rather than wear eyeglasses. She said she had “young eyes.”
So her visual perception remained fog-like at all times.
My role as a
child was to sit patiently in the back seat behind her gold-sprayed
coiffed hair and pray. Pray to arrive at whatever destination we were
headed.
In retrospect,
her hair was the future airbag, as we know it today, so I was quite
safely equipped. This lacquered gold-sprayed hair would act as
insulation should impact be extreme. My grandmother had the pleasure of
the assigned passenger seat. Luckily, her tightly woven platinum wig
protected her as well. Only I, with a few threads of a ponytail, was at
risk. And also my quiet bald father, always absent of any verbal
activity, sat in the back with me. We both placed our safety into the
sheathing of the wigs in front and simply closed our eyes.
The only
necessary items of interest on the dashboard to my mother, Lillian, were
the cigarette lighter and radio. The lighter for firing up Viceroy’s and
the radio belted out show tunes. Traffic lights were non-existent for
mother. Her denial of the color red combined with a clinical diagnosis
of narcissism and an angry temper was a recipe for disastrous,
unexpected consequences.
These
consequences were not only reserved for the family, but strangers had
the pleasure as well. Particularly those waiting at bus stops or those
in the wrong place at the wrong time. When the pink caddy suddenly
stopped thirsty for gas, hernias awaited those unsuspecting creatures on
the street that were asked to push.
Wide as a
flat-screen plasma TV, the dashboard’s bells and whistles were useless
items for my mother. Climate control -- no problem. Her raging temper
kept the A/C on the highest setting. Passenger compartments capable of
seating 4 adults served as a boudoir overflowing with Mardi Gras
costumes, fabrics, and sequins. There was still plenty of room for
adults, dead or alive.
Big, bold and
pink, this vehicle only owned the buttmarks of my mother in the driver’s
seat. Hair big as Texas, her driving rules were indelible: road
shoulders and neutral grounds became a lane; people were to be
completely disregarded; any lane is good; if you miss an exit, don’t
worry -- just cut across lanes of traffic and drive over the divider.
Remember never use turn signals, totally disregard oncoming traffic, and
most of all, have an intimate relationship with your horn.
Her young eyes
piercing at the road, she had places and appointments, people to see,
schmoozing, meetings organized around Martini lunches. These were all
the driving force behind the pink Cadillac. It was her ambitious source
of energy that caused the pink monster a familiar sight in New Orleans.
Jump in thrill seekers; anything is possible.
If it is Mardi
Gras day, remember that pink Caddy barreling down Bourbon Street (which
is always cut off to traffic). There she goes, gold hair glistening from
afar, non-descript legs and arms attached to the front as human hood
ornaments. Forget caution tape, it only gets in the way. Light up a
Viceroy, turn up the volume, Lillian is on the road. With her young
eyes.
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