The Coup de Grace

(Creative Non-Fiction: while the essence of the story is truthful, I have taken creative liberties to make the story move faster, strike the reader with humor; the story is the truth, but some of the details are enhanced.)

 A great road trip is comprised of a great car, a great destination, and a great story. A light blue Oldsmobile Cutlass with white leather interior, bucket seats, automatic on the floor, rear speaker radio, and two-door body style became our family sedan for that summer and, in hind sight, the worst vehicle purchase Daddy ever made. Great for glamour; not so great for a road trip.

The summer of 1965 included a family vacation to New Orleans. My younger brother and I folded ourselves into the back seat of our two-door sports sedan with Mother and Daddy in the front bucket seats. With full control of the radio, our parents, smoking like advertising executives for Viceroy, cruised down the highway in the sporty, head-turning Cutlass I had sported through the high school parking lot not a month previous.

After a week in New Orleans, a week of eating at fancy restaurants in the evening and buying Bourbon Street souvenirs during the day, it was time to pack the car, including the customary delicacy:  Mother and Daddy always brought home fresh shrimp after a visit to the Gulf coast.

As back seat passengers, my brother and I rested our feet on souvenir sacks; the small trunk was brim-filled with luggage, so the ice chest for the shrimp presented a dilemma. Daddy was pondering how he’d be able to transport the fresh shrimp; priorities had to be established.  I volunteered to stay behind. 

Since the vehicle was not equipped with a luggage rack, Daddy rigged one, swapping out luggage from the trunk to accommodate a large cooler of shrimp. Daddy covered the ousted luggage with a tarp and strapped it to the trunk. 

With speed and wind, the tarp began to shred and the luggage shook. The sound of the ripping and whipping tarp was deafening. Daddy could hardly keep his eyes on the road ahead for glancing in the rear-view mirrors to be sure we did not litter the highway. Stops along the side of the road to secure the tie-downs lengthened our journey. We looked like the Jed Clampets without the rocking chair. Indeed, heads were turning to gander at our vehicle as it sped toward home.

He did not see the flashing lights. So much noise surrounded the vehicle that Daddy, singular in his focus, also did not hear the siren of the Louisiana Highway Patrol car.

Daddy rarely cursed in the presence of women and children. He broke with tradition.

I slunk down in the back seat, praying the big, ugly trooper in a big, ugly hat would not take my father to jail. Mother lit another cigarette. My brother provided commentary on all the events as they unfolded. He was especially impressed with being pulled over by a Lee Marvin look-alike, hoping the trooper with unsteady swagger would serenade us with the happy birthday spectacle from Cat Ballou. The serenade he shared with us was not exactly what we expected.

We pulled into our driveway late that Sunday night with exhausted and cramped bodies, battered luggage, but fully intact, iced, fresh Gulf shrimp. And a ticket, the coup de grace. Daddy drove the Cutlass to the dealership the next day and I never saw that Dream Machine again.