A nauseating sweet smell crept up my nose as I opened my eyes to the darkness that surrounded me. What the HELL just happened? My mind raced to come to grips with the direction of the road to the right side of the Bronco II. How did I come to be facing this direction? A moment ago the road was on my left; driving in the right lane to return to college. Smoke billowed from the crumbed primer gray hood through the shattered and missing parts of the windshield. That sweet smell again hits me and brings my focus back to the steering wheel; gripped tightly in my hands. What just happened? Slowly I release my grip and shift focus to removing my long brown hair from my eyes; covered in small granulies of tempered glass I pull away with a handful of glistening chips reflecting in the overhead light. Staring for a moment in disbelief as I hear from the cargo area, “Congratulations Honey, you just rolled your first vehicle… Now… let’s get the HELL out of here… Move over!”

It was Fall; cool enought for the sweatshirt I was wearing; that evening it rained steadily for hours. Basketball season was in full swing and I had to come home that weekend to get some supplies for school. Living in the on campus apartments; we were required to provide for ourselves… no food court or fastfood at my College. The concept of “Business School” was that you dressed professional daily, attended during business hours, lived in on campus apartments with kitchens and were expected to practice living the life you would have AFTER College. At the time; I wasn’t very appreciative of this fact as my friends bragged of rolling into their classes; late, unpreppared and in baggy grey sweatpants. Years later I am now begging for the educational system to set more standards on etiquette, independence and home economics. With goodies in tow; I loaded that Grey primer partially painted Bronco II and woke my Dad from his nap on the couch. “Time to go Dad; you have to run me back to College.” I said patiently as he rose from the Couch, grabbed his cigaretts, beer, laid his novel back on the couch and headed towards the door.

You didn’t dare wake Dad unless it was time to go; he did not like to wait on you to load the vehicle. I watched my mother for many years; prepparing for our Island weekend trips down to Ole’ Muddy. Carefully she would pack coolers, overnight bags, grocery store bags, beer (if any was left on the porch), us kids and the dogs into whatever station wagon or beater we had at the time. She would have all this ready for when my Dad got off work and home on Friday afternoons. He would jump in and off we went to the Island cabin. On Sundays; Dad would need a nap to sleep off some of the consumption. My sweet mother would pack the bags, tell my brother and I to load the boat, get the dogs and have EVERYTHING ready to go before we woke DAD. Regardless of how carefully she prepared; something wasn’t right or was missing and we would all have to hear about it. The constant shame, guilt and expectations to cater to Dad was overwhelming at times. Eggshells always were walked on; avoidance and practing “out of sight, out of mind” were the norm not the exception.

The frame was bent; I leaned hard into the drivers side door shoving my left shoulder hard against it but no movement came. “Get out on the passenger side… that door is open and won’t stay shut, you will have to hold it as we drive out of here and get home.” Dad said as he climed over the rear bench seat; blood ran crimson in color, thick in form from the top of his head down the right side of his face and jaw. “Dad, your bleeding… are you okay? I’m sorry Dad.” I whimpered out as I slid over to the passenger seat and reached for the door. “Yes.. Now lets get out of here! Hold that door and put on your seat belt so you don’t fall out.” If the cops come, they won’t believe it was you driving this vehicle.”

At first, I wondered why cops wouldn’t believe me. I had been driving. As the rain poured; the headlights bounced all around with the reflection from the road. The Bronco II had this funny issue; apparently a fairly common issue that you had to keep one foot on the brakes and one on the gas when it was pouring rain or it would stall out at an intersection or stop sign. Oh course; Dad had been meaning to fix this issue for the last few… years? But atlas as intelligent and capable as that man was… his demons occupied the free time and energy it would take to accomplish the task. It was just a known flaw and because he could operate the vehicle with no issue in his mind; then it was safe as long as you followed his rules of operation.

I held onto the door with my right hand and the center console with my left arm tightly; as Dad manuvered the Primer colored grey Bronoco II out of the field we landed in up back onto the road. We were within five miles of our home; it is true most accidents occur within five miles of your residence! Smoke rolling; that once sweet smell began to turn to a metal burning aroma as the gages on the dash lit up the dark interior of the Bronco. “Come on… ” Dad willed this grey, twisted, shit box of a vehicle down the road and into the driveway of our house; it was 15 minutes from when we had departed orginally.

The sweet smell returned. Only this time I knew the smell all too well. Clarity came rushing in; the cops would have smelled that sweet smell. They wouldn’t have believed an 18 year old was driving this shit box and tapped the breaks for four deer jumping onto the roadway. The engine stalling; losing control of the steering and rolling it twice landing on the wheels facing the opposite direction as we were traveling. My Dad climing from the rear cargo area; his shoulder looking detached from his torso; thick blood running down his head and smelling sweet.

What I didn’t mention earlier; when I awoke my Dad to have him travel with me back to college; he had his small cooler with us in that shit box; filled with Old Milwaukee. Except for the empty can already on the floor and the one that had been in his hand as he rode in the passenger seat. To this day; if I see one of those cans of Old Milwaukee I want to vomitt. That sweet smell of spilled beer all over that Bronco II is exactly why we high tailed it out of that field; even with Dad’s torn roter cuff and head requiring stitches.

Even though I didn’t make it to College that evening; I got plenty of an education on how to stitch a head wound, create a sling, hide a wrecked vehicle and to avoid a possible DUI when the Cops wouldn’t believe your sober Daughter was driving the shit box.