In God we trust_ all others pay cash - Jean Shepherd [70]
I eased the clutch in and gently moved the gearshift lever into “Reverse.” Already I was a master of gear-shifting. “Ease out on the clutch gently,” and I began to roll backward out of the garage.
Screeeeeeaaaa.…
I slammed on the brake and the clutch and hung in midair for a split second.
My God! I had scraped the left rear fender on the garage door! I put her in First and tried to roll forward.
Eeeeaawwwrrrrr.
It was stuck! The fender was dragging against the door. My God! I was sweating. And sick with fear. I had really done it this time, all the way!
I quickly scrunched over to the other side of the seat, and out. I was going to push the car into the garage. I couldn’t move it. It was really stuck! I had to drive it in again.
I got behind the wheel and put it into First. I was going to do it real slowly. Reeeal sloww.…
EEEEEEEAAARRRHHHHHH. BOING!
I could hear the door scrunching and ripping. I got out again and looked. I could just see the edge of a huge scrape mark on that beautiful midnight blue fender. The paint was peeling off in long curls. It was jammed, and I didn’t know what to do. I knew that if I moved any further I’d strip off more paint. I had to do it!
I eased out on the clutch.
RRRRRRRR
It was stuck!
I could hear people moving in the house, doors slamming. Any minute now somebody was going to come out! I just knew it. My father! He was going to come out in the backyard to look in the trunk, or to pick up a football or something.
The screen door slammed open, and it was my kid brother. My God! I head him off.
“Hey Ran, hey. Would you go down in the basement? See if you can find my old … ah … my … remember that old skyrocket I had? See if you can find my old skyrocket, will you, Ran? Go on, Ran, see if you can find it for me.”
He looked at me and then went back in the house and down in the basement.
I didn’t want anyone to know what I had done, and time was running out!
I leaped in the car. Any minute now my Old Man was going to come out. I knew it. I slammed it in gear.
EEEEEEEEUUUNK!
It was free!
I turned the key off and got out. There it was! The back fender neatly peeled, a long scratch the entire width of the fender and then some. What was I going to do!?
I knew what to do. Nothing! Absolutely nothing!
Five minutes later I was two blocks away, knocking out fly balls and pretending I had never seen a car in my life.
That night we were all dressed up and in the Graham. I was in the back seat, and worried sick. Nobody had even noticed that the back fender was scraped. I was keeping my mouth shut, and I was sweating: a thirteen-year-old Rascolnikov sizzling with guilt, fighting against the urge to blurt out:
“Stop the car! Look at the left rear fender! I did it! I am guilty! I am unworthy to exist in the bosom of such a wonderful, innocent group on its way to see Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers! I am guilty and despicable!! Rotten to the core!!”
But what did I do? The same thing that modern man always does. Plays it cool. At least as cool as it is possible to be while shuddering under wave after wave of fear and guilt.
We parked the car and went into the movie. I was still safe. Darkness had obscured the raw wounds of my crime.
I squirmed through the movie in a cold sweat, barely able to concentrate on my taffy apple. All I remember was that this guy Astaire kept wearing a high silk hat—like Jiggs—and hopping around on the tops of pianos.
Another crucial moment came when we approached the Graham in the parking lot. I hung back, waiting for the thunderclap.
It did not come. The Chief merely got in the front seat and said:
“Pile in. Let’s go.”
I scrunched down in the back seat and in my relief and nervousness talked a blue streak all the way home.
But later, in bed, the old icy sweat came back. He would have to see it tomorrow, and he would know! There was no escape! I squirmed and sweated for half an