2003, I squint out the dusted window with sick fear. As I compulsively look down and count the number of dead flies wedged between the window and its inner frame, our rusted RV is calmly nestled in a group of 5 large, intimidating pine trees. They created a circle around us that was mentally satisfying. It created an illusion of safety. However its true intentions lie in the darker realms of kidnap and isolation. With our two front tires playing dead, my father and I sit in fear and silence. Neither of us had any significant knowledge in RV repair, and there’s no cell phone reception to call for a mechanic. I remain content with my vacant mind and no drive to fix the tires. At this point I transfer my eyes from an intelligent, observational looking squint, to a blank stare into the foggy abyss that was the forest. Along with the fog came violent hale that lightly tapped the sides of our RV, creating a soothing rhythmic pattern that put my brain into a pleasurable tingle.
Despite my dire need to sleep and hopefulness that the tires are fully inflated by the time I wake up, I am immediately disrupted by a large crack of thunder followed by a thin zigzag line of light that disappeared in the jagged hills beyond. I am mentally alert and at this point I am determined to fix the tires. ”Dad”, I say with confidence, “we have to fix the tires or we’ll be here for an unsettling amount of time.” I have Mono and my throat is burning with various colored phlegm spitting out to the tip of my tongue. I would have been satisfied with a cheap mug that said ”I love Canada”, bought from run down tourist shop but now we are stuck here. Clearly the gods have written a different story for me on this cold night. My dad has tunnel vision. His big brown eyes with crust in the corners look at me with concern. ”You rest” , he says, rushing over to me with unsatisfying, half drunken hot chocolate, and a large blanket with a dull red maple leaf spread across its middle. ” You sit, I believe there is a spare tire in the back, I’ll run out and try to fix it.”
We exchange quick glances as he finishes wrapping the blanket around my bony shoulders. I want to stop him, but he has a will, and I will not get in his way. I close my eyes tightly every time I had to swallow saliva, as the pain is sharp and intense. I weakly move my neck over to the window and hear the quick splashes he makes with his tan construction boots as he runs to the back of the RV. A newspaper from last week covers his head against the rain. Despite its immediate decomposition he clings tightly to what remains. I look again and see him rush to the tire with an imposing looking tool. With each strike of lightning I can vaguely make out his large framed silhouette in the shadows of the fog. He is rotating the tool counter clockwise, but due to the rain his grip seems loose, and his maximum effort is required. Moments later I sit there with anxiety and sense of pride that warms my overworked heart. My dad is taking care of me and at the same time showing admirable determination to get us out of our muddy, wet, flat tire predicament. I feel the RV suddenly jerk to the right. “The tire is off”, I happily conclude. Within minutes I am banging on the window giving my Dad support for all his efforts. I can feel the RV shift up, causing my weak cold body to fall back onto the cheap, coffee stained couch. He runs in the trailer. His shirt is drenched in sweat, mud and rain. His beard went from intimidatingly scruffy to a thin soaked line of hair that falls down to his chest. He looks at me with a large smile spreading from cheek to cheek. He demands that I rest amid assurances of homeward travel. The key in the ignition is music to my ringing ears. As we back up I feel like I can never amount to the bravery shown today by my progenitor. From the rough road that forcefully throws me up and down on the not so well suspended couch to the smooth gravel our day has drastically improved. From that day on, whenever I look out the window with a warm cup of cocoa I always remember that night. My dad exhibited a graceful amount of primal instinct to protect his young through hard times. To this day I don’t know if he fixed it correctly or chose to follow a more liberal interpretation. Regardless, I decided from that day forth to emulate his compassion and will-to-survive with my own children someday. Whenever there is a borderline hurricane, I no longer feel sense of insecurity and fear because I know my Dad will always be there, dead or alive, as my wet bearded angel.
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Joel Van Gent
Widdershins Lit 