Jeep Thrills  

My parents always brought home the strangest things from their Saturday nights at the China Doll Lounge—things like a three foot John Wayne whiskey decanter, or an equally tall bottle of Galliano. I’m not sure if they actually paid money for these things, won them in raffles, or if they were simply gifts from friends. I suspect that my parents were probably kleptomaniacs—but some objects (like the occasional nameless drunk that was found sacked out on our couch when we awoke on any given Sunday morning) would have been pretty hard to spirit away under an overcoat.

A favorite "keepsake" was the Budweiser clock. It used to hang on the wall in the booth where they’d drink their bourbon and Cokes to the sound of Hank Williams’ caterwauling. It was a couple of feet high, with a brassy team of Clydesdales under the clock’s face. The frame of the clock was filled with lava lamp bubbles that, I suppose, represented the bubbles in an ice cold bottle of Bud. Mom proudly recalls the story of how she pried away the power cord that was stapled to the wall. Next, she put it under the table when no one was looking. Then, with a good kick, slid it under the pinball machine that stood like a sleeping sentry by the door. On the way out, she nonchalantly grabbed it and threw it in the back of the truck. It was quite a find, but karmic forces eventually kicked in—later blessing our home with an army of cockroaches.

Lots of treasures, lots of stories, but the best souvenir of all, was discovered one quiet summer morning. It was far too big to fit under a pinball machine—too big, even, to sprawl out on the couch. It was parked in our driveway.

Painted a flat olive green, and lacking any signs of actual warfare, the World War Two Army Jeep seemed dusty, as though the previous owner had stored it for years, unaware of the mayhem it could have provided. I never learned who they got it from—or how—but that’s beside the point. The real story is how my parents put it to use that summer in Poplar Grove.

It was the Fourth of July weekend, and our usually quiet neighborhood popped and cracked with the distant sounds of caps and illegal Evanston firecrackers. The blistering hot sidewalks were being scarred with the black stains of "Snakes"—you know, those things that started as a charcoal pellet and ended a long, loopy stream of ash. My dad always questioned, "What’s up with these Snakes? What do they have to do with Independence Day? Did the Founding Fathers all sign the Declaration on Independence, and say ‘Hey! Let’s go light some Snakes?’" He had a point.

I sat on the front porch listening to the sprinklers’ hiss. I wished for some pyrotechnics of my own, but my holiday weekend was destined to be spent on the front porch playing "Rorschach Test" with the melted popsicle drips on the tops of my bare feet.  

Soon, the calm of the sprinkler hiss was broken by a bang! and sput-sput-sputter! coming from the driveway. I turned to look and saw them both, Dad in the driver’s seat—Mom riding shotgun. They were both sporting army helmets—thrown in as part of the deal. The military effect was sort of lost on the fact they were also wearing t-shirts, cutoffs and flip-flops. "Where are you going," I yelled—partly wanting to go, but mostly afraid for their own well being. "We’ll be back in a minute," Dad hollered back over the din of the engine. They backed out of the driveway onto Pueblo Street and headed north—possibly never to be seen again.

I stared back at my feet and said a silent prayer.

Looking like Colonel Klink and Sergeant Schultz, they prowled the back alleys and side streets of Poplar Grove. They zipped down the alleys, flinching and wincing as they were whipped with low-hanging twigs and Virginia Creeper. Perhaps this mobilization was not such a good idea, they later recounted. But it was a mission. They were red-blooded Americans. Duty called. You could almost hear them whistling "The Bridge Over the River Kwai."

Breaking free from the torturous Guadalcanal-like alley, they turned out to the daylight of Emery Street. Looking right, looking left, they got first glimpse of the enemy.

Three boys in tank tops and tube socks were crouched in an "up-to-no-good" formation in the middle of the street. Dad stopped the Jeep and sounded the horn. It sent them all into the air, revealing the reason for their huddle. It was a Coke bottle—loaded with a bottle rocket—and ready for launching. There was also a dozen scattered, tell-tale matches showing that this firing wasn’t their first. "What’s going on here," Dad shouted in his best George C. Scott snarl (but sounding a bit more like Barney Fife). "Nothing," stammered one of the kids. "Well, why don’t you hand all of that ‘nothing’ over to us? We’re from the UNITED STATES ARMY!" The kids, wide-eyed and shaking, gathered the goods and placed them in Mom’s outstretched hands. This was going to be much easier (and cheaper) than a trip to Evanston.

My parents pulled away to the astonishment of the three ne’er-do-wells and resumed putting a halt to the other neighbors’ holiday fun—snickering all the way home.

When they returned with their loot, I looked at them in disbelief. Not because I was getting a ration of bottle rockets, Roman Candles and M-80s, but someone’s angry parents—if not the cops were probably not far behind.

The paranoia wore off by nightfall as Mom and I sat in the yard under the big birch tree. My little brother ran across the lawn, doing loop-di-loops with a glowing sparkler. The first cricket of the night began to chirp. A block away, other neighbors were celebrating, too. 

Mom aimed a bottle rocket down the street at them. "Watch me scare the piss out of these guys," she said with a squint and launched it. "Hey, watch it!" they shouted, retaliating with a screaming rocket of their own.

War had been declared.

I ran for cover.