My a father is a North Carolina-bred, southern black man. He often hustled to pay bills
or to pay off what little debt he had, as well as managed to bring some good times in my
life. I can only imagine the struggles and pressures that would often haunt him as I grew
up.
At least one joy that I knew he had was his car. As a kid, sometimes he asked if I
wanted to go for a ride with him. I loved climbing into the seat of that gold, 1977
Deuce-&-a-quarter (Buick Electra "225" for those who don't know)
Electric seats and windows, 8-track, and CB radio! And equipped with a loud-ass
bullhorn that would scare the pants off of unsuspecting pedestrians. That shit was
funny as hell to see people jump like that!
We'd ride to the store, to Krispy Kreme, his spot for cofee and convo, mine for hot, glazed,
(and glazed only) donuts. His best friend Fulton (his 1st name) often met us or rode along.
The liquorhouses on East st were the pit stops. The absence of child car-seat laws allowed
me to roam wrecklessly in the backseat, from window to window without caution. Holding
my mouth open and letting the breeze insta-dry my wet tongue. Cupping my tiny hands,
armwrestling against forceful, 60mph wind. Pretending we were Starski & Hutch chasing
bad guys, crimefighting through the streets of Raleigh. We were the ultimate tag team, me
and daddy. I was fast and foxy, he was the brute strength. We'd crush the Road Warriors and
Ric Flair put together right here in the back seat!
I loved that car.
I have a love for cars even to this day.
I wish I had that Deuce now.
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