7/25/02

The Day Bill And His Dad Scalded One Another …

Can't sleep, bigtime. My loss, your gain.

THE DAY BILL AND HIS DAD SCALDED ONE ANOTHER PURPLE WITH BOILING MOTOR OIL

This adventure begins one luckless noon, when I stopped by my mom and dad's house for lunch. My sister Tina had just blown up the engine in her car for maybe the fourth time- I remember the first time she did it, my dad asked her how often she changed the oil, she goes "oil?"- she never learned, hell, none of this tribe ever does, or ever will. I'm not even in the door good when my dad's on me.

D: You checked your oil lately?
B: Not lately.
D: You planning on blowing your engine up, too?
B: Why do you always do this?
D: Well, are you?
B: Yes, Dad, I'm planning on blowing my engine up, too. 
D: I don't know how you got to be such a smart ass.
B: I often wonder myself.

I go on in so my mom can fix me a sandwich- I'm perfectly capable, but in those days she'd have been highly offended if I hadn't let her. My dad goes on outside through the garage, comes back in a few minutes later.

D: Do you know you're two quarts low on oil?
B: Really?
D: Yes, really. I don't know why you kids don't take better care of your things.
B: Well, I can't speak for Tina, but I think money grow on trees.
D: You'll be laughing out the other side of that smart mouth when you-
B: I know- blow that engine up.

I eat lunch, visit with my mom for a while, go back to the office. I pick up a couple quarts of oil at Go-Mart on the way back, put 'em in before I leave to go home, cause I'd have to throw myself off a bridge rather than face my dad if in fact I did "blow that engine up".

Driving home I notice the car's oil pressure climbing abruptly and alarmingly. Since my mom and dad's house is closer than mine, I stop there.

D: What's wrong?
B: Oil pressure. And before you open that mouth of yours, I put two quarts of oil in it already.
D: You did? So did I.
B: When?
D: While you were eating.
B: You mean earlier today?
D: Yes.
B: Could you maybe have bothered to TELL ME?
D: I forgot.
B: Dear God.
D: Don't you check before you add oil?
B: Normally, yes, but you'd just checked it.
D: That's no excuse
B: WHAT?
D: That's no excuse. If someone told you a gun wasn't loaded, would you just-
B: I'd put some bullets in it, and I'd shoot you
D: Well, you'd better drain some of the oil out of that engine. You're gonna blow it up.

Tight-lipped, I went out to the garage, got the flattish red plastic pan that we used when we changed oil, and a wrench to take off the plug, Mr. Fixit one quick stop on my part away from being imbedded up my ass.

I'm thinking, I'll drain what looks like a couple quarts out, and everything will be fine. What a fool's paradise I live in. I never took into account that seven quarts of oil in a crankcase meant to hold five, is going to be under a lot of pressure, and scalding hot, to boot. I get the plug about halfway out when this fire hose like JET of oil comes flying out around it, blasting the plug the rest of the way out. The oil felt like a damn flamethrower on my hand, so naturally I drop the plug in the drain pan. The oil's coming out so fast it's spraying all over, burning the living hell out of my head and neck, and I realize the drain pan's gonna overflow in about 30 seconds.

I try to squirm out from under the car, to find my dad blocking my way.

B: Move, I'm getting burnt.
D: What?
B: Oil . . . too hot, coming out too fast. Move.
D: Put the plug back in

The plug is at the bottom of the drain pan, and trying to get it out would be equivalent to Sean Connery fishing the drug vial out of the deep fryer in Outland, but, I don't really feel like explaining that to my dad at this moment.

B: Can't . . . move, I'm getting fucking BURNT.
D: Put the plug back in.
B: Will you . . . dammit . . .owww!
D: Put the plug back in.
B: I CAN'T! MOVE!
D: Put the plug back in.
B: Jesus . . . overflowing . . . shit . . . I'm on FUCKING FIRE HERE, MOVE!

About this time my dad notices this river of boiling oil flowing out from under the car, and he expresses his concern over my well being.

D: Hey! You're getting oil all over the street. You better put that plug back in. Quit. DAMMIT, QUIT KICKING ME.

He limps back holding his shins and I scramble out from under the car, covered from crown to waist in steaming motor oil.

D: What the hell have you done now?
B: ME?!

I yank off my saturated t-shirt, along with about 8 layers of skin, and hurl it at my dad. It catches him dead in the face, and wraps around his head like a barber's towel. He staggers around the court, from inside the shirt coming muffled, "Arrr -gaff,- oh shit, hot!"

I'm in a flaming insaniac rage at this point. I crawl back under the car and drag out the overflowing drain pan, the extra pain from sloshing oil on my hands more fuel on the fire.

My dad unwraps the t-shirt from his now Jolsonesque face, eyes bugging ever bigger and whiter as "Have some a' this!" I scream, and throw the oil from the drain pan on him.

D: OOOHHHH! YOU DIRTY LITTLE- YOU CRAZY- HOT! HOT!
B: HOT! HOT!

He and I are both jumping and stamping around the court, soaked with hot motor oil, the steam and profanity roiling off of us in clouds both transparent and blue, flapping our scorched arms and screaming "HOT! DEAR GOD, HOOOOOT! HOT! SWEET JESUS!" 

My mom, who's seen a lot in her time, was standing slack jawed on the front porch. Other mothers are yanking their children inside, up and down the street.

I lurch up into the yard and turn the water hose on myself, a sensation probably the closest to heaven I'll ever know. My dad tries to come over, slips and falls in the motor oil covering the court, then starts flailing about in it like a dinosaur in a tar pit.

D: Squirt me with the hose.
B: I can't hear ya.
D: SQUIRT ME WITH THE HOSE.
B: I CAN'T HEAR YA.
M: Bill, squirt your daddy with the hose. He's smoking.
B: Serves him right . . . 

So I squirt him with the hose, he squeals and shudders like a schoolgirl, and eventually, we get cooled off, physically, at least. Getting the oil off was another story. I was burnt too badly to scrub, and too damn mad and sore to care. I went home looking like some Navy SEAL all blacked up for a night mission.

Loretta gave me the hairy eyeball as I came in the door.

L: What, uhm . . .
B: I changed the oil in the car.
L: From the inside?
B: No, out at my mom and dad's.
L: Did your dad help?
B: You could say he was present.
L: And I suppose he looks . . .
B: Yep. Just like me.

She just gave a sad little shake of her head, and went on. It's all any of us can do.