On Mother's Day, Dad invited the mechanic, his wife, and three small children,to resuscitate his '76 Nova, which was the color of a wrinkled orange andspilling more oil from every crevice than the Exxon Valdez into the neighbors'flat calm driveways. Dad only drove it from one side to the other to avoid streetcleaners. It was his first car, and my maternal grandmother, who died yearsago, had lent him the money to buy it. We were setting the table with Szechwanfrom Mike's Chinese when the car burst into flames. Thirty Chinese and onehalf-Cherokee streamed toward the burning Nova. George, my husband, yelledat them to stop pointing the garden hose at the gasoline fire, but everyonescreamed back in Cantonese. No one wanted to call 911. The Chinese don't likemaking a scene, but it's OK for the car to ignite other nearby cars, its flamestraveling slowly along the oil slicks. Auntie Claire suggested we pour a boxof baking soda on the fire. While Dad tried to retrieve his stash of lucky redenvelopes from the glove compartment, twelve firefighters shattered the carwindows with their axes. Afterwards we ate. Then George and I stepped out fora smoke and watched the neighbors celebrate the rise in property valuesas the tow truck dragged away the charred hulk.
The Place That Inhabits Us: Poems of the San Francisco Bay Watershed.
© Priscilla Lee. All rights reserved.