Hippie Boy: A Girl's Story Read online

  “I want to show you something,” Dad called from behind the car.

  I climbed out and walked to where he standing. He popped open the trunk and exposed the Beetle’s secret―the fact that the engine was actually located in the back instead of the front like every other car I had seen.

  “Here’s where the oil goes,” he said, unscrewing the lid to the motor oil compartment. Then he pulled out the oil stick so he could show me where to keep the oil level.

  “If you don’t remember anything else, remember to always keep the oil level up in your car and change it on a regular basis. I’ve seen more vehicles ruined by that than anything else.”

  “Okay, Dad,” I said, only half listening as I headed to the front of the car to check out the storage compartment. The car was so perfect I considered pinching myself to make sure I hadn’t reverted into one of my daydreams.

  I glanced back at Dad, who was still standing by the engine. He looked as happy as I felt.

  I could have spent the night in the car, or the rest of my summer camped out beside it―just to make sure that nothing happened to it. But after forty-five minutes, Dad told me it was time to go.

  “Don’t worry,” he said as we drove out of the parking lot. “It’s yours. And one way or another, I’ll get it fixed. You’ll be driving it soon enough.”

  DAD AND I SPENT the next couple of weeks testing out his new business venture. We traveled our usual loops through Oklahoma and Kansas, but instead of searching for oil rigs, we popped into every small or mid-sized town we came across and kept our eyes peeled for mom-and-pop gas stations and independent truck stops.

  As Dad predicted, it wasn’t too hard to get the store owners to invest a few dollars in sunglasses and T-shirts, and soon money was flowing again.

  Dad told me he had been thinking about Rhonda and feeling a little guilty for not being in touch for so long, so he decided to surprise her by wiring her three hundred dollars. A few days later, when Dad called to check in with Harold, he learned that Rhonda had sent divorce papers.

  “I guess she used the money I wired her to file for the divorce,” Dad said as he hung up the phone. “I’m a little surprised. But to tell you the truth, Ingrid, I’m also a little relieved. There wasn’t anything there anyway, and now I don’t have to worry about supporting her.”

  He laughed. “Yup, Ingrid. It’s just the way it goes.”

  The next morning, he announced that we were heading to Amarillo so he could visit Debbie, the twenty-two-year-old AT&T operator who had tracked him down at the Iowa Holiday Inn five weeks earlier.

  I pictured an aggressive, stalker-type woman, but Debbie was the last thing from that. She was quiet and came across shy. Unlike Rhonda or the other women I had seen Dad with, Debbie wasn’t into the glamorous look. She wore little, if any, makeup, and had short, brown hair that looked like it didn’t require more than a few brush strokes to style. Her fingernails were short and she was dressed in a conservative blouse, jeans, and comfortable-looking flats. And she looked young. Really young. Then again, Dad had said she was only six years older than me.

  “Hi,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m Ingrid. Jerry’s daughter.”

  “Hi there,” she said softly. Her accent immediately reminded me of living in Mississippi.

  “Debbie’s from Tennessee,” Dad said, guessing my question. “From a little town just outside Nashville.”

  It took only a few days in Amarillo with Debbie to convince Dad that he should make the west Texas town his base. That meant heading back to Fort Worth to restock up on merchandise. It also meant trading in the station wagon for a truck so Dad could tow my Volkswagen to Amarillo and get it to a mechanic he knew there.

  “Here’s what I’m thinking,” Dad said as we drove back to Amarillo two days later in the Dodge pickup he had just acquired, with my car safely hitched behind it. “I figure it will cost about three hundred dollars to fix your car and that it’ll be ready in about a week. That will give me a few days to earn some extra cash. Then what I’ll do is drive that old Chevy Vega I just picked up back to Utah to give to your sister, and you can follow behind me like you did when we drove to Iowa.”

  Dad was always acquiring junk vehicles. He liked to have them handy in case something happened to the one he was driving or someone he knew needed one. Just before leaving Amarillo to pick up my Volkswagen in Fort Worth, Dad had given a guy some tools in exchange for the Vega. I didn’t realize then that the car was for Connie.

  “Yup, that’s what I’m thinking, Ingrid,” he continued. “I know Connie’s been needing another car real bad and when I talked to her last, I promised I’d get her one. And this way I can visit with your brothers and sisters for a few days and then fly back to Texas.”

  His words were like magic dust. I was so excited I could hardly think straight. Ever since he had told me about my car early in the summer, he’d promised that we would be driving it back to Utah. But it hadn’t seemed real until now. And the idea of driving the eight hundred miles by myself, in my own car, and following behind him sent a rush through me. Ever since driving the Pinto to Iowa, I had been fantasizing about the thrill of taking it out on my own road trip.

  We pulled into Amarillo around noon and dropped my car with the mechanic, who told Dad he would give it a good look that night and provide his assessment the next morning. That evening, while Dad was out on a date with Debbie, I lay in my motel room bed thinking about the excitement that awaited me. In only ten days, I would be starting my junior year of high school. And I was going to be starting it with my new car.

  I loved that my car had the trunk in the front of it. And it was a big trunk that could hold plenty of gear if I decided to take off on a long road trip somewhere with Heather. I couldn’t wait to show her. I was going to head to her house the minute I pulled into Logan and take her for a ride. I would probably even pick her up for the first day of school.

  At eight the next morning, Dad and I drove over to the mechanic shop to get the scoop on my car. When the guy told Dad that the engine was completely shot and it was going to cost eight hundred and fifty dollars to fix, I thought his veins were going to pop out of his neck.

  “What do you mean eight hundred and fifty dollars?” Dad nearly screamed at the mechanic. “How can it cost eight hundred and fifty dollars? I don’t have that kind of money!”

  I stood quietly beside Dad, feeling my heart sink. He didn’t have to say anything as we walked back to the truck. The cost was nearly triple what he had expected to pay. I knew there was no way Dad could get his hands on that kind of money. Especially now. His court hearing was two months away and he had to figure out how to repay the ten grand he owed the bank or this time he really was going to jail.

  He looked like the air had been knocked out of him.

  “I can’t believe he wants that much money to fix that car,” he muttered under his breath.

  My heart felt like it had dropped into my gut, but I concentrated on keeping my face neutral so Dad wouldn’t see how disappointed I was. We drove in silence for a minute. I knew he was trying to find the right words to let me down, and I realized I should speak up first and tell him it was okay and I understood, but I couldn’t make the words come out.

  Dad finally spoke. “You know I want to get that car fixed for you as much as you do. But I just don’t know how I’m going to be able to come up with that kind of money in a week. I’m sorry, Ingrid. But I’m going to have to bring it up to you in a couple of months.”

  I reached for his hand and squeezed it. As bad as I felt about the car, seeing his disappointment made me feel worse.

  “It’s okay, Dad,” I said, trying to make my voice sound light and positive. “I know you can’t do anything about it right now. And what’s a couple of months anyway?”

  I spent the next two days trying to ignore the ache in my gut. Along with the crushing disappointment over not being able to have my car for awhile, I was depressed about being cheated out of driving it b
ack to Utah. I’d been looking forward to the road trip and had prepped for it over and over in my mind. Then, with less than a week to go before school started, it hit me that there was still a way to salvage the trip home. While I wouldn’t be able to drive my Volkswagen back to Utah, maybe there was a chance I could drive the Chevy Vega back to Utah for Connie.

  I knew Dad still needed to get the car to her. I also knew that he was so squeezed financially that he’d decided he couldn’t afford to take the time off from selling to drive with me to Utah. And he certainly didn’t have money to fly himself back.

  Dad had mentioned the possibility of sending me home by bus. But this still didn’t address his need to get the Chevy to Utah and I knew that was my trump card. I waited until his mood seemed right before approaching him.

  “I have an idea,” I said, trying to act as though the thought had just occurred to me. “Why don’t I drive the Vega back to Utah? This way, you kill two birds with one stone. I get home in time for school and Connie has her car, so you don’t have to worry about how you’re going to get it to her.”

  Dad didn’t say anything, but I could see his mind working.

  “Please,” I begged. “It’s a perfect solution and you know I can do it. I mean, I drove that other car across two states by myself. And that was when I had just got my license.”

  “That’s true, but I was right there with you in case anything went wrong,” Dad said.

  “Nothing’s going to happen, Dad. How long have I been out here on the road with you? You know I can take care of myself.”

  Dad was quiet again, but I knew I had planted a seed. I also knew how hard it was for him to say “no.” And the truth was, my plan did solve two problems for him.

  Two more days passed and Dad still hadn’t given me his answer. School was starting in four days, and Mom was furious that I was still in Texas and Dad didn’t have a plan for getting me back to Utah. She had even called my uncle and asked him to loan Dad the money for a bus ticket for me.

  That pissed off Dad.

  “Well, if you’re going to be driving that Chevy back to Utah, we better take it out for a practice run to make sure you feel comfortable,” he announced the next morning.

  I wanted to do a victory dance but I could tell by the serious look on Dad’s face that exhibiting too much enthusiasm would be a bad idea. I concentrated on keeping my voice steady and firm.

  “I think it’s a good plan, Dad.”

  “I just hope I won’t regret it,” he mumbled.

  “You won’t, Dad, I promise.”

  We drove to a car lot where the Chevy Vega was parked so I could get a feel for it. I hopped in and discovered that I couldn’t reach the pedals. When I tried to shift the seat forward, I realized it was broken.

  “It’s okay, I can just stick my duffle bag behind me,” I said quickly, not wanting to give Dad any reason to change his mind.

  Dad showed me the trick to starting the car. I first had to insert the key into the ignition and turn it to the “on” position. Then I had to push the red button hidden in the glove box which was connected to two wires. Dad warned me not to mess with the wires because he said if they got disconnected, the car wasn’t going anywhere. The next minor issue was the stick shift. The knob at the top of the stick was broken and popped off in my hand during my first practice ride around the parking lot. I made a mental note to always push down on the knob when shifting so it didn’t come off on me when I was driving down the freeway. I finished my test drive and arrived back to where Dad was waiting for me.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s perfect, Dad. It drives fine and everything’s great. It’s not going to be a problem at all.”

  “Well, I know one thing that’s not fine,” Dad said. “I’m going to have to fix that radio so that you have some music to keep you company. Otherwise, it’s going to be a long drive.”

  Dad spent the next hour hooking up loose wires on the radio until we got reception. Then I followed Dad to a nearby gas station so he could fill up the tank and check the air in the tires to make sure they were good to go. Afterward, we headed back to our motel room so I could pack and get ready for my adventure.

  That night, Dad gave me a road atlas and had me show him the route I would be taking so he felt comfortable that I knew where I was going. Then he handed me two crisp, fifty dollar bills.

  “Here’s some money to get you home. It should be plenty to cover you for gas, food, and a motel room for a night. Whatever you don’t spend, you can keep.”

  I fingered the bills in my hands. They felt brand new, like they had been issued just for this trip.

  “Thanks, Dad.” I pulled out my wallet from my denim purse and carefully tucked the money into the billfold behind my driver’s license.

  “Whatever you do, don’t lose that money,” Dad’s voice trailed behind me. In my mind, I was already gone.

  I set my alarm clock for 3:30 a.m., but I was so excited I woke up before it went off. I quickly showered, threw on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and then woke up Dad. By 4 a.m., I was by the door with my duffle bag.

  “So you ready to put some miles behind you?” Dad asked as he walked me to the car.

  “Oh, I’m ready,” I said with a grin on my face. “This is going to be the best day of my life.”

  “I hope you’re right,” he replied, giving me a hug.

  I opened the car door, arranged my duffle bag behind me, and got in. I reached the pedals perfectly. I started the car and then waited for Dad to pull out so I could follow him to the freeway. Dad wanted to make sure that I at least got off in the right direction.

  When we arrived at the on-ramp, he pulled off to the side of the road and I followed his lead. I watched him get out of the car and make his way to my car window. He looked concerned and tense.

  “Are you sure you are going to be all right, Ingrid?”

  “Yes, Dad. I promise,” I said, trying not to sound exasperated. “You don’t need to worry about me. Everything is going to be great.”

  “Okay,” he said and sighed, sounding a lot less confident than he had been when we left the motel.

  “Here’s what I want you to do,” he said, suddenly sounding stern and serious. “The minute you get even a little bit tired or sleepy, I want you to pull off to a rest area or go somewhere and relax. If you need to, just stop and get a motel room. And I want you to call and check in with me at 4 p.m. sharp. I’ll be at Debbie’s house. You can call me there.” He handed me a piece of paper with Debbie’s phone number scribbled on it.

  “Okay, sounds great, Dad. I will.”

  I was getting antsy and wanted to start my drive. I worried that the longer we waited around, the more likely it was that Dad would change his mind. I reached through my rolled down window and gave Dad another hug.

  “I love you, Dad. And thanks again for letting me do this. This is the best adventure I could wish for.”

  “Okay, Ingrid. I love you too.”

  Dad finally walked back to his car. The minute he closed the car door behind him, I was gone.

  “YES!” I shouted into the quiet darkness. “I’m doing it!”

  A jolt of energy rushed through me. I had never felt so free. Or so happy. I was where I belonged.

  For a while, I lost myself in the white and yellow lines that stretched endlessly on the concrete in front of me. I loved those lines. They were like old friends beckoning me to keep on coming toward them. Those lines had kept Dad and me going for years. Along with the mystery of the unknown that awaited us, they held the hope for a better future—one where Dad finally achieved his million-dollar dream and I was free of Earl and the poverty at home.

  My mind jumped to Mom and how surprised she was going to be when she saw me pull up to the house in the car. She knew I was on my way home, and Connie knew she was getting her car, but they both just assumed Dad had finally decided to bring me. They had no idea I was coming on my own.

  My thoughts
drifted to the journey ahead of me. I had a little over eight hundred miles to drive. I figured I could cover at least five hundred miles today and then drive the rest of the way in the morning, arriving home just about the time everyone was returning from church. I couldn’t wait to see the look on their faces.

  I leaned back against my duffle bag, which I had arranged vertically so it covered the length of the seat. Every cell in my body felt alive. I listened to the sound of the early morning silence, interrupted only by the roar of the occasional semi-truck that passed by me.

  I loved this time of day. The air smelled clean and fresh and was still cool on my skin, but I knew that once the sun came up, it was going to get hot, and I wanted to savor the moments.

  I pushed my foot down on the gas pedal to see how fast I could get the car to go. It had a good motor and drove smoothly even at seventy-five miles an hour. The speed limit was fifty-five and I made a mental note to keep a lookout for cops. I slowed down a little and waited a few minutes for a semi-truck to pass me. Then I pulled in behind it and followed its lead. I knew this was my best protection against a speeding ticket because truck drivers always had their two-way radios going and alerted each other when a patrolman was spotted. I smiled, proud of my road knowledge. I felt savvy and smart and free.

  A couple of hours into the drive, I decided it was time for music. I turned on the radio and scanned through a dozen country stations before landing on an oldies station that was playing, “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” I belted out the Beatles tune as loud as I could. I had been a Beatles’ fan ever since I was six, when a hitchhiker Dad brought home to stay with us pulled out his guitar and sang “Michelle” to me because I had told him that Michelle was my middle name. At the time, I thought he had made up the song for me.