Free Going to Chicago by Rob Levandoski

unabashedly. In that old Boy Scout tent. In Mary and Fritz’s backyard in Valparaiso, Indiana. With the smell of dog urine and moldy canvas.

“ I have drove Fords exclusively, when I could get away with one. For sustained speed and freedom from troubles the Ford has got the other car skinned .”
    C LYDE B ARROW , IN A LETTER TO H ENRY F ORD
    Eight/Nothing But Vanilla
    Aunt Mary yelled over the purr of the Gilbert SXIII. “We enjoyed having you.”
    â€œWe had a swell time,” Will yelled back. “Thanks for the cookies.”
    â€œBe careful in dat got-damned ting,” Uncle Fritz yelled from the porch. He was in his underwear. The three beagles were sniffing his furry legs.
    Will yelled back. “We’ll send you a postcard from the fair.”
    I backed down the driveway. Aunt Mary followed, fingers splayed down her happy hips. “Take care of that ear, Clyde.”
    Clyde assured her he would.
    Finally she yelled at me. “Nice meeting you, Ace.”
    I began a slow roll up Tecumseh Street, anxious to kill Valparaiso. More ready than ever for Chicago and the willing city girls that lived there by the thousands. As I took off I heard her voice chase after me like a siren: “Y.E.S.”
    We reached State Route 2 and took it to U.S. 30. It was seven in the morning. Understandably, Will was antsy. He had planned on leaving at 5:30. But Aunt Mary had insisted on gluing us full of French toast and syrup. So we were well behind schedule before we got started.
    The plan was to take U.S. 30 west into Illinois, all the way to Joliet, then take the famous U.S. 66 into the city. There were several closer routes. But Uncle Fritz insisted we approach from the west, to skirt “Nikker town” as he called Chicago’s south side. We flew through the tiny burgs of Deep River and Ainsworth, Merrilville, Shererville. At some forlorn crossroads we stopped to gas up.
    Will handled the pump. He was a professional, after all. Then while Clyde sat outside on the step and looked sideways at the empty road, Will and I went inside to pay and maybe get a bottle of pop. Sure it was only eight o’clock in the morning and nobody respectable drank pop that early. In the Methodist world we lived in, you didn’t dare treat yourself to anything until late in the afternoon, after a day of sacrifice and accomplishment. But we were on the open road now. Free as birds. Released by adventure from all such religious restraint.
    Anyway we didn’t get pop. We got ice cream. Three tall vanilla cones. Nickel each.
    We sat on the step next to Clyde and licked. It was already hot. Will watched the melting ice cream dripping off Clyde’s knuckles. “If you don’t hurry up you’ll have to lick yours off the step.”
    Whether it was his ear or the French toast and syrup, Clyde was in a foul mood. “It can drip straight to hell for all I care. You know I like chocolate better.”
    We were already ninety minutes behind schedule and Uncle Fritz’s detour would cost us another hour maybe. Those cones, good as they were, were costing us a few more precious minutes. Understandably Will was simmering. “Don’t you think we’d all gotten chocolate if they had any?”
    Clyde wouldn’t retreat. “I want chocolate.”
    Will came to a boil. “Excuse me for spending a nickel on you!” He grabbed the cone from Clyde’s sticky hand and threw it as far as he could.
    â€œWhy’d you do that?” Clyde whined. “I woulda ate it.”
    That’s when I noticed a man and woman walking up the road toward the garage. “Hey,” I whispered. “It’s that hillbilly gangster and his girl, isn’t it?”
    It was them. The hillbilly had his shotgun over his shoulder. His girl was dragging two big suitcases. They walked right up to the Gilbert SXIII. They were covered with sweat. The girl started primping in the mirror on the door.