This red Dodge Lancer was bought new, from a dealer miles away, and was ready for delivery the night of parent-teacher conferences, just before Halloween. Somehow, I had convinced my parents to bring me along to pick up the car, and I waited for hours it seemed, parked out on the street, playing with the radio, while they heard whatever nostrums my teachers chose to share about my wisdom, intelligence, and general readiness for academic success.
I rubbed the faux leather vinyl, also red, smooth and supple. I marveled at the small space between the seats, completely empty, carpeted in red above the drive train. Instantly, I knew what my project in Shop would be.
Eighth grade, all the boys took shop, the girls, Home Ec. One girl in homeroom, Shelby Cooper, somehow ended up in shop – her name, inherited from a Kentucky uncle, must have seemed male-ish to the administrative secretary who made up the “elective” class lists. Now, we think nothing of the on-going appropriation of boys’ names for girls: Madison, Alex, Aubrey, Avery, Ryan, Robin, Jesse, Jordan, Stacy, Leslie; and now, there is no segregation into Shop and Home Ec. Shelby, bless her, was not flustered at all. She went to the shop class as instructed, and seemed miffed when Mr. Raterman, very flustered and embarrassed – an odd affect for the junior high football coach – said, “We’ll work this out, uh, Shelby, and get you into Home Economics, where you belong.” Shelby, it seemed, wanted to be the only girl in Shop, and learn the secrets of sawing, gluing, electrical wiring, and whatever else they were hiding from the girls.
I was not yet a feminist, though, and made no effort to stand up for Shelby. All I wanted was fit in with the other males sitting around the hard-edged metal legged tables. I just wanted to produce something a bit more useful than my first project, a brass ashtray, embellished with multiple small symmetrically placed craters, diligently pounded with a mallet and rounded chisel-like punch. I would make a console for the Lancer, an auxiliary glove box, custom-sized and covered with a padded, vinyl lid snugly fitted.
Easy enough to do, out of malleable aluminum. First brush and buff it smooth. Next, cut out four squares, one from each corner, based on precise measurements taken from the space itself. Then, carefully fold the remaining cross into a box. Cut from plywood a perfectly sized lid, and hold the vinyl cover in place with thin strips of wood which precisely slotted over the front, back and sides. Finally, place it into the space, and start filling it with the odds and ends of car travel: Small fuse boxes, little packets of Kleenex, random change, and paper clips.
It would end up being my crowning creation. It was my fate to be the son of an engineer, who was endlessly tinkering and designing practical home-made gadgets for the family. I simply could not compete with that relentless inventive persistence and attention to detail and novelty.
Life-size Tinker-toys made from plywood and wooden rods. A water heater using the discharge from the air conditioner in the basement. A clam-shell folding hamburger patty-maker; this one was extremely clever in its simplicity. Just two squares of wood, 1” by 4”, each with a 3” x 1/4” circle routed out, joined together with two hinges. Roll the ground beef into a ball, prop it into the bottom depression, press together firmly, and out came a neat circular patty, ready for grilling.
And he had a penchant for ingenious folding boxes. One fit into the back of the Buick, designed for camping. Imagine a doll house, but instead of little rooms and furniture, it had shelves and drawers to hold utensils and essential food items. Then, leather hinges and a fold-down front door, which served as a work space after it was placed on the camp site picnic table. It had a sturdy clasping mechanism, which survived an attack by a ravenous brown bear one late summer night in Yellowstone Park.
But the most precious device was the Debate Box he built for his son. When folded up, it looked like a fat wooden attaché case. Oak veneer covered the sides and top. Inside, the bottom compartment had two pullout drawers, separated by an interior wall, for the essential 4×6” cards, each of which held a sourced quote, ready to be used in the rebuttals to counter any conceivable argument the other side could produce. Above those was a shelf for the 8 x 11” papers which held the notes of canned speeches, as well as blank paper for taking notes during the debate.
But the crowning achievement was the top, which hid all the treasures within. The back wall hinged outwards, the front wall folded down, held in place by a screw-on handle, secured to that central interior wall. And, most ingenious, a 1’‘x1/2” strip along the bottom of the front. Carry the thing up to the front of the debate room. Place it confidently on the inevitable desk or table. Spin the handle counter-clockwise. Unfold the front, top, and back, and it turned into a a lectern! Pull out any papers or cards needed, then go to town.
It was in this box that, along the top shelf, that I placed the girls’ timing cards. They seemed more precious than all the notes and arguments; instantly, they became our secret super power.
By this time, I had been driving that Lancer myself for a year. No longer dependent on the bus or my sister to get to school – she was gone to college my senior year – all I had to do was drive my mother to her class or work at the University where she was finishing up her ten-year odyssey to get her Ph.D. in Psychology. I was at last a Cool Kid who could motor where he liked, when he liked. But I really had no where special to go, just swimming practice, then debate practice. I couldn’t figure out how to get to parties, much less to a one-on-one date with a girl.
(To Be Cont’d)