Much of my early views of Florida are seen above a sea of car upholstery, through rolled up windows, where the only things visible are the tops of Palm trees and passing trucks, condos and clouds, and Nonnie and Papa’s heads hovering over a wide expanse of leather stretched across the latest Cadillac’s cavernous front seat.
Here, conversations are muffled, and occasionally in broken Italian, so young ears can’t possibly understand; and elevator music versions of Rock ’n Roll songs play softly; where Papa’s cautious, half-mile-to-execute lane changes regularly cause the turn signal to remain blinking.
It must be an audio-visual black hole (I think to myself), oblivious as he is to both the flashing green light and the constant clicking for miles on end.
The sound of it lulls me into a stupor, until Nonnie finally notices the signal of perpetual motion and snaps at Papa to turn it off.
A few miles pass and all is peaceful, until the car begins to fill with a terrible smell.
I turn to my cousin, John, who’s holding the backseat’s cigarette lighter, with an indecipherable look on his face, as the smell of flaming follicles slowly wafts through the well-sealed compartment.
“What’s burning?!” Nonnie shrieks, “Something’s burning! Jimmy, something’s on fire!”
Papa pitches the lumbering Caddy to an empty parking lot at the side of the road, unrolls the windows, and orders everyone out of the car.
John’s dubious deed is soon discovered.
Papa gives his grandson “the eye”; while Nonnie stands there mumbling and grumbling and shaking her head.
After one last inspection to ensure nothing else has been set on fire and throwing John one, last incredulous look, Papa orders everyone back in the car before signaling his return to the road, where, for the final miles to the restaurant, I lose myself in the smell of burnt hair and the click of the sedan’s left blinker.
Dog-eared Stories by anne celano frohna 