Mr. J's Car

There are certain events, memories, times, that change your basic understanding of life.  They often sneak up on you.  They aren’t planned activities like going to the Natural History museum on a field trip, or heading out on vacation with your parents.  No, they are more basic than that.  They just pop up unannounced.

 

One Christmas a few of my friends and I were out roaming the town, tracking down people we knew and signing Christmas carols to them.  You see, I hung out with a number of musically gifted people.  Girls who played violin, viola, flute, and harp; guys who played piano, guitar, horn, and sax’s; choir members and musical actors. They were my “people” in high school.  I was wrapped up in the beauty of musically talented people.

 

I have no idea what they saw in me. 

 

 

So we were out going door to door, my friends singing a few carols, while I hid in back strangling a cat or two.  Then we would beg some cookies, or hot chocolate, and move on down the street.

 

After a couple hours of this as we rounded a blind corner on a rather dark backstreet, one of the violinists pointed at a little MG sitting by the curb and  said; “Hey, isn’t that Mr J’s car?”.

 

Mr. J was the orchestra leader at our high school.  Yep, same sporty car, same driving gloves; even a notebook from our high school on the seat, unquestionable Mr. J’s car parked by the curb right in front of the house on the corner.  We trooped up the walk and started leaning on the doorbell of the house so we could sing Christmas carols to Mr. J.  After a bit of persistent doorbell ringing, Mrs. J opened the front door. 

 

There she stood, fully in the doorway, hair disheveled, bare footed, clutching the top of her robe closed; panic in her eyes.

 

 

Now, Mrs. J was a favored English teacher of several kids in the group.  Problem was, while Mrs. J and Mr. J had the same number of letters in their last names; they weren’t the same letters if you know what I mean.

 

Yep, I had seen that panic’d look before.

 

 

It was usually in the eyes of a rabbit with one leg caught in a trap as I approached; shotgun in hand.

 

One of the girls, Lynn, said: Oh, hi Mrs. J, we want to sing you some Christmas carols, can you get Mr. J to come to the door too?

 

Mrs. J simple said: “……….He’s not here” in a meek and quiet voice.

 

The girl started to object that we had seen his car right at the curb.

 

 

Now to be truthful with you, I had never considered Mr J as anything other than a snobbish dweeb of a teacher.  What other conclusion can you come to of a man who jelled his hair, wore lifts in his shoes, drove a sports car, while wearing driving gloves, in his late 40’s, in sunny California?

 

But seeing Mrs. J standing there, in obvious discomfort, basically unclothed, denying that Mr. J was in her house, it became readily apparent to me at least that there must have been more to the man that I gave him credit for.

 

Being a hormonally charge teenage boy, I had already connected the dots and I cut Lynn off with a “Well, let’s just sing one quick carol to Mrs. J and get going.”

 

 

About the time we got back on the sidewalk headed down the street, a couple of the girls had figured it out as well.  And I guess Mr. J was more attractive than I had thought, cause when they made the connection, their hormones kicked in.  Of course, discretion is something that comes with age, not with hormones, so we all started joking about it and wondering what we could do to let both the teachers know we hadn’t been snookered.

 

That MG was shining in the street light’s soft halo, calling out to us.

 

A quick glance over my shoulder at the car and I said; “Hey, let’s roll Mr. J’s car around the corner and down the block…that way when he comes out, he won’t see it…that will fix him.”

 

That thought almost fixed all of us.

 

The car’s hardtop was on, but the door wasn’t locked, so one of the gals jumped in, popped it out of gear and released the hand brake.  The rest of us started pushing.

 

Problem was, the steering wheel was locked and before we knew it, the car was broadside across the road just this side of that blind corner.  We all stopped to talk about what to do.  Some voted for leaving it right there, some voted for trying to pick up the front end and roll it around the corner with just the rear tires on the ground. 

 

After a while we decided the best thing to do was to just push it back to the curb.

 

No sooner had we done that and set the parking brake than an ambulance, siren screaming and lights flashing, squealed around the corner and flashed off down the street.  Everyone was gaping slack jawed at the receding ambulance. 

 

 

Everyone except me.

 

I was looking at the house where I had caught motion in the front window.  And saw Mr. J’s wide eyed countenance peeking through the gap in the front curtains.

 

I smiled and waved.

 

Copyright © 2013 Marty Vandermolen