Just Like The Dream

The Covted Akeem "The Dream" Olajuwon Etonic

The spring Sunday afternoon was warm and sunny.  My mother wasn’t entirely pleased.  My athletic shoes were falling apart and wouldn’t get me through the end of the school year. By the time I was a teenager, my shoes had become more expensive, and my mother instilled in me the goal of making them last until summer.  As the prices rose, the durability seemed to decrease. Also, I played basketball on pavement almost every day.

After showing that I was still an all-star baseball player, I decided I wanted to devote my 

time to basketball.  I am 5’11, two-thirds of it torso, and of Scottish descent.  We didn’t use the term “stay in your lane” back then, but it would have been appropriate.  However, I’d taken to the game when the pro basketball surge of the 1980s swept in.

            My dad was a star player in high school despite a lack of size.  His best advice was for me to develop a quick release.   I shot pretty much every day, working not only on accuracy, but speed.  Before long, I was able to get my shot off, even against taller players.  On most days, I was just as accurate. 

  Like my dad, I liked the Celtics.  My second favorite team was the Houston Rockets. The Rockets then became my team during the 1986 playoffs with their playoff upset of the Lakers and a finals appearance against the Celtics.  That Celtics team was one of the best squads ever assembled, and the Rockets were no match. 

  Basketball was so all-encompassing that high-tops were my everyday shoes. I don’t know that I needed ankle support in English class, but if so, I had it.

 

I walked into the sporting goods/shoe store at the mall to gaze at the on-hand selections. I knew I would get high-top basketball shoes; it was just a matter of which style I liked and how much they cost.  My eyes scanned the floor-to-ceiling display and stopped on one shoe.  My eyes grew wide. My heart pounded.  I raced over and picked up the display. It wasn’t necessary.  It could’ve been made of lead or lined with barbed wire, and I would’ve wanted it. 

It was the Akeem Olajuwon “The Dream” Etonic basketball shoe in Rockets red and gold.

“With purchase, you get a free record of Akeem performing 'The Unbeatable Dream,’” said the young woman overseeing the shoe section.

Etonic was an odd brand for basketball shoes.  Though the company preceded the game of basketball by fifteen years, its focus was historically on golf and bowling.  Incidentally, Etonic was the first company to develop water-resistant leather for its golf shoes.  I didn’t know anything about their hightops, but they crushed the eye test.  These were some damned good-looking shoes.  I think they’re still attractive today.

Away from Houston and in Tulsa, Rockets memorabilia was difficult to come by.  We didn’t have the Internet and web stores where we could order items from anywhere. There was the mail-order business in Hanover, PA, for which Larry Bird did television ads.  That was more of a once-a-year thing.    At that point, I’d only been able to find a red logoed t-shirt that I wore every other day.  

Given this, it’s understandable that I got excited and that my materialism kicked in.  Akeem was a burgeoning superstar and one of my favorite players.  Here was a chance to purchase his signature shoe.  Nobody at school had this.

  My mother was far less impressed.  She didn’t like basketball and couldn’t possibly grasp the significance. Her first question was what was printed on the price tag.  I don’t remember the amount; it was elevated but not ridiculous.  Still, it was more than she had planned on paying.  What immediately followed is something I’m not proud of.  As a matter of fact, telling the story now still feels a little rotten.

Anyway, as I mentioned, it was rare to find Rockets artifacts in Tulsa, and this was a big one.  Also, I really wanted those shoes. I didn’t ask for a ton of stuff; it’s just that usually when I did, it was significant.  At that time in my life, those shoes meant a lot to me.

Plus, I was fifteen. Children aren’t great negotiators.  We’ll bargain, but that’s about the extent of it.  I remember one dreary Saturday evening being at the relatively new phenomenon known as a video rental store with my mother and younger sister.  It was pin-drop quiet when my sister offered to brush her teeth in exchange for renting The Muppets Take Manhattan.  I laughed because I’m the older sibling, and part of my job description as such is to stir up as much shit as possible.  My mother felt even worse, particularly after renting a pair of R-rated movies, meaning my sister and I would have plenty of time to brush our teeth that night.

I was an ardent toothbrusher, so that wasn’t a bargaining chip I possessed.  My silent dismissal of the balance of the store’s selection had not worn my mother down, either.  Short on ideas, I opted for a poor, pitiful, sad sack.

“I think I’ll just hang on to these a little longer,” I said, gesturing toward my feet.  “They’ve got some life left, and I’m not crazy about anything here.”

My mother paused.  I didn’t look at her.  I knew the look she was giving me, and I didn’t want to see it. I rested my case.  It was The Dream or bust.  I was prepared to soldier on with my well-worn Converse.

She moved over to the display and grabbed the Etonic from the shelf, and gave it a good look.  

“Do you have this in a ten?” she asked the clerk.

I turned away to allow a smile to creep across my face.

Moments later, the clerk returned with the shoes.  I tried them on and loved them even more.

“Are you sure?” I asked my mom.

“You’re worth it,” she said with a reassuring smile. This is how my mother operated.  She’d do without something to make up the difference.  I never fully understood this until I had a child of my own. Clearly, she’d made her peace with it and was ready to move forward.  Not that she wouldn’t replay the piteous scene for my father when we got home.

One of the cool things about Akeem Olajuwon is that, a few years later, when he became a genuine superstar, world champion, and league MVP, he partnered with Spalding for a new signature shoe.  He realized that basketball shoes shouldn’t cost so much that kids would steal them or kill for them.  These you could buy in the help-yourself racks at Kmart and other retail outlets for $35.  It was a great gesture at a time when his popularity was at its pinnacle.

The Etonics rung up for considerably more.  I tried to show my gratitude without spiking the ball.  Yes, I had won and yes, I was happy, and yes, I was grateful and yes, I was a bit of a baby about it. Tactfully, I also talked up the quality of my new shoes.  The ankle area came with extra nylon bands and release buckles.  I made the assumption this would offer better ankle support and prevent me from turning my ankles on the court.

There is an adage when it comes to negotiating to the effect of once you get what you want, be quiet.  My unnecessary yapping raised a point of contention.

“Those have to last,” my mother said emphatically.  “You should wear your old shoes for playing basketball outside,” she said, thrusting a glistening steel pin into my big red balloon.

“But they’re worn out,” I protested.

“From playing on concrete,” she noted.

I was so angry with myself.  I’d said too much.  

“These are the coolest shoes I’ve ever had,” I said, chopping water and trying to stay afloat.  “I’m going to take very good care of them.”

“That’s good to hear,” she said.  “I’m glad you understand.”

I tried to keep the discussion at a stalemate until I could come up with a good argument.  Part of it was my fashion sense, such as it was.  From seventh grade on, I could have been a stand-in for Zack Morris from Saved by the Bell–button-down shirt, wash-of-the-season Levi’s, and high-top basketball shoes.  By refusing to change it up, my shoes got more wear than they should have.  Costing what they did–even then–my mom wasn’t crazy about replacing them multiple times each school year.

By that time, we were almost home.  I’d won the war but was losing a major battle.  In desperation, I made a statement that contained an element of truth, though it hadn’t been a primary concern.

“It’s just that the old shoes have been hurting my feet a little.”

I don’t know if my mother missed her calling as a podiatrist.  She has always been concerned with my feet.  Making sure they’re warm, dry, in a sturdy, well-fitting shoe, and in socks for bed during the winter..  Mentioning foot discomfort was a stop-the-presses, slam-on-the brakes, drag-the-needle-off-the-record situation.  

I’d reclaimed victory and wore my Dreams to school and for playing ball afterward.  To my word, I took great care of them and wore them until the soles had essentially eroded. I never saw another pair for sale anywhere.  My tactics may have been untoward, but I’m grateful I was able to get them when they were available.

Twelve Inches of Dynamite

Also in the bag, as promised, was the 12-inch single of “The Unbeatable Dream,” performed by Akeem Olajuwon and a fellow by the name of Hurt ‘em Bad.  It should be noted that there was a disturbing trend in the 1980s, with sports teams recording songs.  Now, disaster is often presaged by the words, “took to social media.”  The analog in the 1980s was “went into a recording studio.”

Given the environment, Olajuwon adding a few lines to a song about him and his shoes wasn’t out of the question.

Hurt ‘em Bad, a character who fronted a group called the SC (soul connection) Band. They were among the earliest West Coast rap artists back when hip-hop was largely confined to New York City.  They were out of San Bernardino, which clearly lacks the menace of Compton, but must be much better for securing an insurance policy and life expectancy. They were from the Inland Empire, which is at least an empire.

Musically, they weren’t prolific, nor did they demonstrate any real greatness.  Hip hop performers often say they write about what they see.  Ostensibly, Mr. Bad watched sports on television and wrote about them, cooking up some rad Casio beats to pair with them.  He also did a lot more name-checking than chin-checking.  “Monday Night Football” (and various remixes), “N.B.A. Rap,” and “The Boxing Game.”  An internet rumor claimed a comeback was imminent with a new song about pickleball, but that’s yet to materialize. Not quite IShowSpeed’s bastardization of the World Cup in 2022, but not outstanding, either.

Whatever Mr. Bad’s musical limitations might be, he was astute enough to keep Olajuwon’s contributions to a minimum.  Akeem has always spoken with a strong Nigerian accent, but it was particularly thick back in the 1980s.  Hurt ‘em zips through verses praising Olajuwon while working in frequent plugs for Etonic.  Hakeem punctuates each stanza with a phrase and then sing “unbeatable” at the end of each chorus.  For instance, the last verse.

Hurt ‘em Bad

Akeem is back with shoes to match in his red, white, and gold

Work up a sweat get soaking wet keep striving like Akeem

And put ETONICS on your feet, 

Akeem Olajuwon

And be just like The Dream!

Back cover, credits, lyrics, stunt feet?

I still have the record.  I put it on the turntable recently, and it’s really no cornier than it was when it came out.  It’s an artifact from a bygone time.  As such, it served as a nice reminder of a fun time in my life.  And for several months back in the 1980s, even I could put Etonics on my feet and be just like the Dream.

Catch Me If You Can

My mother was scheduled for a surgical procedure on Friday morning. I believe some form of HIPAA prevents me from getting into the details. If not, I’m in no position to press cases with my mother, as you will see.  

The afternoon before, we worked out the logistics. My sister had offered a ride for the 6:45am check-in time.  I drew the seemingly easy assignment of going to my mom’s house and letting the dog outside.  The timing worked well with my schedule.

My mother has had her dog for about a month.  She had been trying to adopt a rescue dog for months, but nothing had quite worked out.  She announced her intentions to take a break from the pursuit for a few months when Teddy came along.  Teddy is an eight-year-old Morkie with light brown hair.  He favors his Malteses side and has a larger structure than our family’s Morkie.  The timing was just right. My mother was elated.

Teddy moved in on the second day of the new year–the day after my mother’s birthday, and couldn’t have been a better present.  He and my mother became fast friends and best buddies, with Teddy acclimating immediately, ie, taking over the household.

One of the first things we discovered about Teddy was his energy, especially for an older dog. Ours is a total lapdog that does things according to his own schedule. And when in doubt, he’ll curl up on the sofa for a nap.  My mother has a lot of energy for her age, so it seemed like a good fit.  I hadn’t seen her that happy since her last grandchild was born.

Over the phone, my mother gave me specific directions on letting Teddy outside. At the moment, it seemed like overkill, though my mother is very detailed. While her backyard is fully fenced, she warned I’d need to keep him on a leash.  He’s good at finding gaps and will excuse himself on a whim, or to pursue a squirrel.  As we had snow on the ground from the previous weekend, I was also to wipe his paws with baby wipes once back inside.  In closing, my mother also apologized for the messiness of her house.  She always does this when I'm there while she’s away.  Usually, I don’t notice the difference.  You could eat off the bathroom floor, though she’d never allow it.

Friday was very cold.  It made no pretenses, an arctic air mass joining a leaden sky and bitter wind.  Given the way I felt, I’d planned on a light day.  I needed to run a few errands in the morning, then straighten up downstairs before retreating to the cozy upstairs loft to write.  

Society has a problem with sweatpants, and I’m just as guilty as the next person. The look has taken over to the extent that we now have dress and casual sweatpants. If I’m going to be out and doing something or seeing people, I will wear my nicer sweats and call them “joggers.”  If I plan on sitting on my ass all day, I have a drawer for my casual sweats.  Casual sweats are cheaper, larger, and less form-fitting.  Even paired with an expensive pair of Nike running shoes, nobody thinks exercise is on my agenda for the day.  Having planned for a light day, I went with my lazy sweats and a long-sleeved shirt.  I needed a coat, but figured I wouldn’t be outside that long.

Teddy was pleased to see me.  He leapt as if on a pogo stick and brushed me with his paws. I scratched him for a few moments before putting him on his leash. In the backyard,  he darted from place to place, exploring, looking for squirrels, and following sounds. After about five minutes, he did what he needed to and led me back toward the house. I wiped his paws and offered him a treat as a reward for his cooperation.  

I looked around the room.  My mother was right.  The place wasn’t its usual, tidy self. Most of this could be attributed to Teddy.  He had two beds, a handful of toys strewn across the living and dining room floors.  The dog had acquired a lot of stuff in three weeks.  Then again, being loved by my mother means you’re always cared for.  

Ready to go, I went to the front door with Teddy bounding in tow.  After putting my key in the lock, I bent down to scratch his head one more time and assure him that his momma would be home soon.  He caught a whiff of fresh air and slipped between my leg and the door frame, launching into a full sprint.  By the time I could turn around, he was two houses down and across the street. 

“Teddy!”

* * * *

A couple of weeks ago, I was playing tennis with my daughter.  As a result, I got what most middle-aged men get when playing with teenagers. No, not arrested. Injured.  I did something to my knee that has made a full stride quite painful.  

The day before my mother’s surgery, I aggravated the injury going up the stairs at our house.  I was in the loft watching the Maple Leafs besmirch and defecate upon the otherwise beautiful game of hockey and made several belabored trips up and down.  By Friday, I was clearly hobbled, moving like Willis Reed in the 1970 NBA Finals.

*    *    *    *

I left the door open with the key in the lock and gave chase.  Not only is Teddy active for his age, but he is also very fast.  Four houses away, seven houses away, a right turn toward the next block. I pursued as best I could, traipsing across icy roads, calling, pleading, begging Teddy to stop.  My lazy sweats proved detrimental from the beginning, as they sagged with each stride.

Teddy rounded the corner and halfway up the next street.  I closed in and he double back, through the yards across the street, hopping up on porches for a look around, then darting off across the snow-covered yards.

Prefontaine

Prefonteddy

“Teddy!  Stop!”

He’d pause and look at me, smiling with his adorably goofy underbite.  If I made a move in his direction, he’d take off again, head back, sprinting through the snow, paying no mind to where he was going or what danger he might encounter.  He was a full two blocks ahead of me as I struggled just to keep him in sight.  He made another right turn through the yards, porches, and driveways.

It’s been a dozen years since I was a regular runner.  I’m out of shape and much slower than I was then.  That said, I’m not sure I could’ve run with Teddy when I was in optimal condition, particularly in snow and ice.

To the people in their homes, looking through their windows, I must’ve looked like a wonderful idiot. Limping through the neighborhood, one hand keeping my pants over my ass, and pleading with an animal who clearly felt no obligation to cooperate.  

We had worked west on a collector street, with Teddy making frequent turns onto the perpendicular residential streets.  Three blocks south, and he would’ve been on a major street. I had to at least somehow keep him in the neighborhood.  Since Teddy was making up the route along the way, I had no way of getting ahead and cutting him off.

The further he got, the more I fretted.  I thought of my mother.  In surgery.  She’d be out soon and ready to come home later that day.  She’d be looking forward to seeing her dog.  I had to get it home.  My heart was pounding, and my lungs burned.  My knee ached sharply with every move. Teddy stopped to metricate in the snow.

“Teddy,” I said calmly as I moved toward him.  “Stay there, buddy.  Let’s go back home.”  

His eyes held my gaze for a few seconds before he was off again.  Straight ahead, full gallop, then back into the neighborhood.

“Teddy, please stop running,” I whined.  “Don’t do this. Please.” I felt pathetic and feckless. I had stepped on a ridge of ice and had bruised my foot to go along with my aching knee.  I wanted to drop to the icy ground and weep.

That wasn’t possible.  As difficult as this was proving to be, failing was not an option.  I imagined having to meet my mother at her house, post-surgery–loopy, in pain, emotional–to tell her that I’d lost the dog she dearly loved.  So irresponsible. After being spared the 5:30am wake-up and assigned the simple task of letting a dog go outside into a fenced-in yard.  She wouldn’t so much as trust me with carving the Thanksgiving turkey–four years from now when she finally felt somewhat comfortable having me in her home again. 

My family would say they understood, while looking at me with accusative eyes.  A likely story, they’d agree.  I was probably raiding the pantry and not even paying attention to the dog. Any ill effects from the operation would be attributed to the emotional and mental strain I’d put on my poor mother.    

With that realization, I resumed the struggle with renewed vigor.  I was Strap leaving the huddle after Coach Dale told me God wanted me on the floor. I carried on with a confident grin of a Philippian foundation.

This lasted roughly 186 seconds.  Teddy had covered two city blocks and was widening his lead.  Keeping him in my sight became my primary goal.  I realized that the only way I was going to catch this dog was with the aid of an automobile.  Unfortunately, mine was too far away.  Teddy could’ve covered a mile in the time it would’ve taken me to retrieve the car.

Going for one full-on chase, hopeful I could sneak up close enough and tackle him before he escaped.  I got close a couple of times, but he was far too quick.  He continued to visit porches and yards, pissing in every third or so. This could go on all day, or one of us would die trying. 

I called my wife, who works a couple of miles from my mother’s house..  She didn’t answer.  I left a message that she would later describe as me sounding like I was having a heartattack.  The hospital was just a few miles away, so I then tried my sister, leaving her a similar SOS.   

Fortunately, my wife sensed the urgency and desperation of my plight.  And was able to get away at a moment’s notice. I just needed to keep Teddy under surveillance. A young man driving a 4-Runner stopped with his window down.

“You got a runner?” he asked.

“Do I ever,” I huffed.

The man didn’t commit to joining the chase, but began following me in his vehicle.  My wife called a few minutes later to request my location, but drove up on us.  She saw furry Prefontaine galloping away from me and showing no sign of slowing.  My wife tried to cut him off using the car, a task complicated further by the icy roads. The man in the 4-Runner got out of his truck after pulling up about ten feet behind Teddy, who was in the middle of the street.

The man took a couple of steps, and both he and the dog broke into sprints with the man pumping his arms and legs furiously before shutting it down.  He continued on foot, and my wife followed in the car.  I went back to get the running 4-Runner and caught up with the chase.   

For the first time, Teddy showed signs of slowing down.  He frequently stopped to eat snow.  Not long enough for anyone to grab him, but at least there was hope. After his break, he zipped through a yard and beneath a fence into somebody’s yard.  When we arrived, he wasn’t there.  My wife spotted him on the next block over.  The man helping us headed that way while I rounded from the backside. It had taken on the feel of a police manhunt. 

Of all the three-word sentences my wife has ever spoken to me, at that moment, ‘He’s got him,’ had to have been my favorite.  Sure enough, Teddy had gotten cornered between two houses, and our Samaritan was able to grab him.

“Good game, Teddy!” he said, handing the dog to me.

We thanked the man profusely.  My wife offered him a cup of coffee, but he refused.  He told us he’s got dogs that like to do the same thing and was glad to help. I nevergot his name, but he did me a huge favor.  I held Teddy the way Lenny held the bunny, hugging and squeezing and climbing into my wife’s car.  In the interest of accuracy, I did not call him George.

“The hay is in the barn,” I told my sister, who had been monitoring our progress from a hospital waiting room.  “That was fun,” I said, more relieved than anything.  “Maybe we don’t tell mother about this until she’s further into her recovery,” I suggested.  “I wouldn’t want her to fret.”

According to the calculations I made after the fact, Teddy had made it approximately a mile from home when he was apprehended.  According to the tracker on my phone, I covered two and a half miles tracking the zig-zagging and moving up and down the streets.  I think I yelled Teddy in frustration, desperation, and anger more times that afternoon than all of Ted Kennedy’s advisors did throughout his career.

At home, I took a hot shower and ate a bowl of soup.  Later, I fell asleep sitting upright on the sofa while listening to What’s Going On by Marvin Gaye.  

That afternoon, my mother called.  Her surgery had gone smoothly and was successful.  She was at home resting and felt much better than she had expected.  She apologized profusely for her dog’s behavior.  What can you do here?  All I could say was that it was no big deal, and I was relieved everything had worked out all right.  My mother was the one who was in surgery; I couldn’t let her feel guilty about something that wasn’t her fault.  

“Someday,” I told her.  “This will be really funny.” 

It already was.

Town Car

             

1979 Lincoln Town Car.  The one in this story once looked this way.

My dad’s vehicle was in the shop with significant body damage.  He claimed alcohol was not a factor in the late-night, single-car crash, but I never could buy that.  The outfit underwriting his state minimum coverage did not provide for a rental, leaving him with few options.  He called one evening asking for a lift to his sister’s house, about an hour away.

“Your aunt has a car that she’s going to let me borrow,” he explained.

“That’s great,” I said, agreeing to take him to pick it up that Sunday.  “What is it?” I asked, bracing for something horrific.

“A Lincoln, I believe,” he said, nonplussed.  

This was a pleasant surprise; Lincolns were luxurious even before MOC McConaughey had those peculiar moments of introspection behind the wheel.  This also promised to be an arrangement that far exceeded typical family expectations.  In our family, favors, when not shot down in the request phase, could range from bait-and-switch to strings as cumbersome as battleship chains. Generally speaking, interfamilial transactions were rakish. When told my dad was getting a loaner, I had imagined something towed from a demolition derby, or a Bondo-colored Datsun without a passenger door.  

My sister decided to join us.  She was concerned about our father’s transportation situation specifically and was generally solicitous that his standard of living had been in a freefall since our parents’ divorce a few years earlier.  At that time, he was rooming with a friend and fellow divorcee in a pink house in an otherwise tidy middle-class neighborhood. They hosted Sunday afternoon basketball games in the driveway, played loud music, and consumed Coors Light by the hogshead.  Given the unsettling trend, my sister was rightfully anxious that our dad might actually consent to driving a Bondo-colored Datsun without a passenger door.

The Wilsons, particularly my dad, had a hideous automobile resume.  There was the primer-colored VW Bug that stunk of the 3M all-purpose adhesive that held it together.  The ivy green Capri that just stunk.  There was the Pinto Pony--for those deterred by the bulk of the full-size Pinto.  My father also took turns driving vehicles belonging to my grandfather, including the infamous yellow Toronado, and after his passing, his F-150 pickup truck.  Finally, things took a turn for the better when my dad bought a new, no-frills Mazda truck.  The transaction was particularly notable as the salesman looked like the Fender Rhodes player from a 1970s jazz fusion band, with a stellar coffee-colored Caucasian afro and robust bouquet of matching chest hair.  

But with the Mazda out of commission, he was reduced to the yet-to-be-seen stopgap. If it was, in fact, a Lincoln, it would be an amazing stroke of good fortune.  Still, knowing the characters involved, it seemed too good to be true. With the Wilsons, altruism is seldom a solitary motive.    

After a Sunday morning drive with nervous anticipation lurking, we arrived at my aunt and uncle’s place.  A 1979 medium blue Town Car sat resting on underinflated white walls in dead grass in the lot behind their house. Years in the elements had given the paint a greenish hue, with creeping pockets of rust around the edges.  The vinyl portion of the roof was peeling significantly, with pieces falling away in small, brittle chunks.  All four doors were intact.

Spanning the length of a beach volleyball court, this was the largest passenger car I’d ever seen.  Somehow, the word huge seems to sell it short.  The fender skirts were the size of surfboards.  I had no idea how it would fit in the downtown parking garage near my dad’s office.  I had doubts as to whether it would even start.

“Fucker fired right up yesterday,” declared my uncle as he hobbled off the front porch with the keys in one hand, a fresh scotch and soda in the other.

“Well, that’s nice and roomy,” I said, panning for something nice to say.

My sister trembled at the very sight of it.

“You don’t have to drive that, do you Daddy?”

He remained phlegmatic and patted her on the shoulder.

"Don't worry baby girl," he said. "Everything will be fine."

He then walked over and opened the door. The fetor was practically visible. A warm waft of air escaped, carrying the scent of cat carrion and piss.  My dad climbed into the driver’s seat, with his nose turned up and scowling as though he’d ingested a spoonful of castor oil.  He pumped the gas pedal and turned the key. After a couple of false starts, the engine came to life with a tired whine and a rumble that launched from the tailpipe in a toxic, coal-black fart.  In idle, it sounded like several pairs of shoes tumbling in a dryer while the belts squealed in torture.  However, the Town Car was operational, even if only autoschediastically. 

“Keep it as long as you need to,” my aunt yelled as my dad pulled the desperation on wheels out of the grass and onto the street, thick exhaust hanging behind it in a low, poisonous cloud.  

My sister and I followed, thinking that at any moment the vehicle might drop an axle or simply die on the spot.  We reached speed on the interstate, with the tires kicking clods of dried mud in their wake before settling into a comfortable wobble.  The exhaust calmed considerably while the retrofit CB antenna whipped like a fishing rod angling a stubborn bass.

My sister was preoccupied with the optics.  Though she’d never have to ride in the car, she was embarrassed for our father.

“We’ve got to come up with something else,” she said with a tone of genuine concern.

“Oh, it won’t last more than two weeks,” I reassured her.  “Even if it holds together, he’s not going to want to drive it that long.  Keeping it in gas is going to cost a small fortune.”

Though the car was less than twenty years old, it couldn’t have looked more anachronistic among the newer vehicles on the road.  We weren’t far enough removed from the oversized 1970s at that point to be completely past the trauma of those engineering nightmares.  Not only did the Town Car have the classic 1970s bulk, it also got the analogous gas mileage.   

True to form, we were about fifteen minutes from our destination when the turn signal flashed, and my dad steered the craft starboard into a gas station.

“Oh my god!” shrieked my sister.  “Already?”

True enough, the car had burned through just over a quarter-tank of gas in approximately thirty miles.  We pulled in behind to make sure everything else was okay.

“Yeah,” said Dad with mild surprise.  “The radio is broken, but by god the CB still works! It smells like cat piss, but it runs pretty well.  Shitty gas mileage, but we expected that.”

Whether it was a brave face or he really didn’t mind driving a rust-caked blue boat, my sister and I were humiliated by proxy.  Perhaps it was all relative.  My father grew up in the 1960s in a large family of limited means.  Any vehicle was a privilege irrespective of condition.  

My dad once told me of a car he had while in high school that had a rusted-out floorboard on the passenger side.  When he would drive his little brother around, he’d deliberately hit puddles so that muddy water would splash up on him in the passenger seat.  My father tended to be a function over form guy. Maybe the condition and appearance of the Town Car truly didn’t matter.  Maybe it was karma taking the scenic route.

Assured that he would be fine, we were sent ahead to the pink house.  Before the car episode and fallout, we had planned to spend the afternoon playing basketball with the boys.  The games and beer were in full swing by the time we arrived.  Aware of what was going on, the gang was eager to see the loaner car.  We tried to brace them for our father’s arrival.

“It’s so sad,” said my sister.

“It was probably really nice at one time,” I said, locating some specks of optimism in my gold snuffer.

A few minutes later, a thunderous rumbling could be heard in the distance as if a cacophonous drumline was ushering my dad’s new ride into the neighborhood.  As it lurched in front of the house, everybody stopped what they were doing to watch. Cat calls and wolf whistles greeted his arrival as the behemoth lumbered to a stop along the curb.

“Love those gangster white walls,” howled one of my dad’s friends.

“Oh no,” yelled my father’s roommate.  “You’re not parking that hunk of shit in front of my house.”

It didn’t stay for long.  In fact, that was the only time I saw my dad drive it.  Less than two weeks later, the Town Car threw a rod and met its long-overdue destiny. It was taken to the salvage yard.  My dad spotted my uncle the amount for the tow truck.  He figured it was the least he could do.   

In Bed and Streaming: The Compulsory Christmas Episode

 

Make room on the mantel, my friend.  An Emmy is headed our way

Nearly any television show with legs will eventually offer up a Christmas-themed episode.  This has been complicated by the flood of Hallmark Christmas presentations, where erstwhile celebrities go to keep their SAG-AFTRA memberships from going inactive.

However, back in the day, holiday-themed episodes were a staple of prime-time television programming.  The lifeguard/eye candy drama, Baywatch, never bashful about exploiting any and everything to fill forty minutes, less the two-minute introduction and seven-to-ten minutes of montages.  Somewhat surprisingly, this was not fleshed out until Season 5.

In December 1994, Baywatch presented the requisite Christmas episode, a two-part hall decker featuring tanning and scanning along the shores of Will Rogers State Beach.  Wedging some yuletide fun into the typical storyline was no trouble.  By its very nature, Baywatch was an exercise in futile storytelling and multiple shark jumps.  In addition to habitually meddling with natural selection, the ingredients for the Baywatch Christmas slumgullion included:

–Mitch is falling deeply in love (meaning the love interest has a yet-to-be-revealed terminal illness–don’t worry; the bread crumbs are there even if Mitch can’t find them).

–Mitch and Hobie are conned by a 10-year-old juvenile delinquent. 

–A conflicted priest

–Midgets!

–A snow machine

 

Clearly, this is the kind of television the Emmys were created to honor.  For a general lay of the Baywatch land, it’s a truncated cast.  Stephanie is off with that bake sale oceanographer, Riley, ostensibly diving for underwater ganja.   Logan is also notably absent, but nobody seems to notice. Matt is depressed because he hates Christmas.  This seems to stem from a chasm between him and his father.  Evidently, the senior Brody does not find lifeguard to be a noble profession for a filthy rich pretty boy. CJ tries to cheer him up, further blurring the status of their relationship. Caroline shows up late, jittery and in everyone’s business as if she’d heard there would be a Christmas delivery of Los Angeles snow at HQ.

Mitch, that affable clod, is madly in love as mentioned above.  Throughout Baywatch history, Mitch is to women as airplanes are to Lynyrd Skynyrd.  Her name is Tracy, she has a terminal illness, and longs for Christmas in Connecticut.  Mitch vows to give her the best Christmas ever as a few of the non-speaking lifeguards sort through a few boxes of decorations that have pragmatically been brought out to the beach to sort through.  

The plotlines are all over the map with stops in trite, non-linear, and ludicrous.  A group of midgets pour onto the beach for a quick vacation.  They take a shine to Matt and set up their little camp next to his tower.  Matt, not precisely the brightest star in the eastern sky, suspects something but can’t put his manicured finger on it.

The first rescue of the episode occurs when a paragliding Santa Claus, wearing Adidas running shoes, is put in peril by an oblivious boat driver.  The midgets see the whole thing and applaud.  They are easily amused.

A priest named Father Ryan shows up.  In an obscure bit of continuing education, Father Ryan is allowed to shadow CJ for a few days.  As CJ is easier than the first level of Pac-Man, they hit it off immediately.  Father Ryan considers leaving the priesthood.  CJ assumes it’s because he’s in love with her.  It’s not. Sad trombone.

Meanwhile, Paula Trickey guest stars as a single mother, problem gambler, petty thief, and transient.  She first cons an obese bookmaker with the help of her daughter, Joey, who is believed to be a boy until the second act.  They then team up to rip off a jewelry vendor on the boardwalk.  This one attracts the sharp eye of Officer Garner Ellerbee.  Joey gets away, but Homeless Paula Trickey is taken to county.  

Enter juicer Hobie, who makes Matt seem like DaVinci, who bumps into Joey and buys her sob story hook, line, and sinker.  Telling him she has no place to go and is waiting on her mother to arrive via bus from San Diego, Hobie takes her back to Casa de Buchanon.   When he opens the door, he finds Terminal Tracy on the sofa with Mitch, who is rounding first and showing no signs of slowing.  It’s unclear who she objects to, but Terminal Tracy goes home.

Mitch and Hobie are preoccupied with Joey taking a bath, but she refuses.  It’s at this point, the baseball cap comes off, the hair falls down, and Mitch and Hobie learn the truth–or some of it.  

The next day, the bus still hasn’t arrived from San Diego–maybe she meant rickshaw–and Mitch’s spidey senses detect bullshit.  Joey spends another night at Casa de Buchanon, during which Mitch finds her sitting on the sofa and firing up a lung dart. 

A more understanding Hobie learns that Homeless Paula Trickey is not on the rickshaw bus, but got pinched and is in the county lock-up.  Joey immediately goes to work on a scheme to raise bail with Hobie’s hapless help.

Unbeknownst to Mitch, Hobie and Joey sell raffle tickets for $20 a pop with the winner getting to ride in a New Year’s parade to be determined, sitting beside Mitch.  They raise $300, which won’t cover it.

Meanwhile, the obese bookmaker has enlisted muscle to get his money back.  He appears to be the Teemu version of Steven Segal.  I know, I also thought Steven Segal was the Teemu version of Steven Segal, but evidently not.  The lughead in a tank top and Silver Tab Levi’s chases the kids around the pier near Santa Monica.  Hobie and Joey run through the catwalk beneath the pier with Teemu Segal in tepid pursuit.  At the end of the line, Joey falls off the edge, dropping the money they made into the ocean.  Hobie tries to pull her to safety but has yet to reach his chemically enhanced optimal strength.  She falls.

Though out of view, the Baywatch news network has reported a goon chasing two children below the pier.  Mitch’s Spidey senses prevail again.  He somehow knows this involves Hobie.  The whole gang takes off, post haste.

After losing his grip and letting Joey fall, Hobie jumps in after her.  He plays one-man Marco Polo for a few minutes until the reinforcements arrive.  Mitch finds Joey on the ocean floor sitting on a rock.  After a few tense moments of CPR, Joey is saved.  She then tells Mitch the whole story.  Mitch feels for her.  The big moosie, his eyes already shrink-wrapped in tears. With Officer Garner Ellerbee’s help, the charges are dropped, Homeless Paula Trickey is sprung, and things are once again chop.  The judge wants to see Homeless Paula Tricky and Joey.  She’s hesitant, but Mitch says he’ll help her get a job if she goes through with it.  Problems solved.  It was interesting that while Paula Trickey was homeless, she wore different clothes every day, and her hair and makeup were perfect.  Location, location, location, as they say.

"Hi, Betsy, we need a new homeless, now.  But good-looking homeless." 

Meanwhile, one of the midgets waded too far out into the ocean.  Matt saves him.  The collective crush on Matt intensifies.  While he’s out on another rescue, the drowning midget decorates Matt’s tower for Christmas.  Matt suspects they are elves! 

It was the night before Christmas, and all along the beach, not a creature was stirring.  Except, an inexplicably tuxedoed Mitch. He surprises Terminal Tracy with a decorated lifeguard tower, a small dance floor, and a dinner table with no food. There’s some sentimental shuck and jive, some kissing, and then Mitch and Terminal Tracy trip the light fantastic on a remarkably level dance floor set up on the sand.  Montage time as the two scoot around, and the viewer hears what sounds like the fourth runner-up in a Diana Krall soundalike contest. 

Christmas Day arrives with everyone meeting at HQ.  Mitch, judging by his clothing, thinks it’s a round-up.  Homeless Paula Trickey–in another outfit, great hair and makeup- is there with Joey.  Mitch has arranged for a snow machine, but it is late arriving.  Christmas delivery can be complicated, dude.  The midgets come to the rescue, evidently finding a snow machine in their picnic basket.  Mitch is able to give Terminal Tracy the white Christmas she’d pined for. 

   

Christmas or Rodeo?

The party moves outside, where the snow has accumulated to a level providing for a snowman and snowballs.  In the middle of the revelry, Teemu Segal shows up, because a good hitman will always come through, even on Christmas.  Of course, he’s easily recognized, and he flees at the sight of Officer Garner Ellerbee, stealing an ATV.  Mitch and Matt jump on ATVs to give pursuit.

The Baywatch pickup truck is also summoned into action, with the midgets jumping in back to cheer on the driver.  The truck catches up and–I crap you negative–the midgets begin hurling wrapped Christmas presents at Teemu Segal, eventually causing him to crash.  The midgets jump on him until he can be taken into custody by Officer Garner Ellerbee.

Presents away!

Back outside HQ, Mitch leads the cast in the singing of “Silent Night.”  The episode reaches its merciful end.

Drive-in Totals

2:09 time elapsed to first dialog

34 pairs of gratuitous breasts

 3 aquarium shots

 8 confirmed product placements