Daddy’s Subaru
With wide-set wheels and impeccable handling, one thing was understood in my family — Don’t touch Daddy’s Subaru.
The paint was Hunter Green because Daddy was a customizer. He had this Subaru specially ordered. The time from purchase to delivery rivaled a mother elephant’s gestation.
“Don’t touch Daddy’s Subaru” — Daddy told us over-and-over during his agonizing waiting period. I was 14 at the time, and hoped that this would one day be my Subaru. But the way Daddy looked at the car when it arrived told me I’d never even sit in the front seat.
But that was okay. Daddy was a good man. He had his peculiarities, just like any other barrel-chested, 48-year-old man.
For example, Daddy also loves Asics footwear. It was Asics on his feet or nothing else. Did you know Asics makes sandals? I had no idea until I went with Daddy to the Bahamas. The weather was tropical and Daddy’s toes were sweaty, but I believe he had a great time.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that people are nuanced. So how could I possibly put myself in Daddy’s Asics? I stopped trying to think about things from his POV and instead learned to enjoy his sparse praise. See Daddy didn’t say much, but he didn’t swear either. He was a nuanced, complex man.
We talk about Daddy in the past tense ever since he was put in the ground. He’s not dead or anything, just a survivalist. Four years ago he drove his customized Subaru into his underground bunker at an undisclosed location. “The end of the world is imminent” Daddy would always say. I never laughed at him, but Daddy’s a proud man — and I think the reason he lives in a bunker now is shame.
I’m proud of my Daddy. And really wished I could drive his Subaru. But Daddy needs his space and if it takes another four years that’s okay. See, I don’t actually like Daddy, but I do respect him. There’s a difference. I respect his taste in cars, but I think Hunter Green is fucking ugly. Since Daddy’s not around, I started swearing more. Learned most of what I know in second grade, at Catholic school — believe it or not.
But back to Daddy — and his whereabouts. We’ve grid-searched for his bunker ever since he left. And have him narrowed down to Appalachia. See, Daddy’s real scared of the Mississippi River. He’d never cross it. One time we crossed a lesser bridge and he had to be covered in the back seat with a blanket.
That was the only time he let Mommy drive Daddy’s Subaru. And Mommy raced Formula 1 — she’s the most formidable driver that Car & Driver has ever interviewed. But even she, couldn’t drive Daddy’s Subaru.
Four years in and the only clue we have is a geographical region. It’s tough searching in the Appalachians — you know, with all the wildcats. But even though the rest of my nuclear family has given up, I have not. I will find Daddy, through hell or high water or wildcats.
A few weeks ago a bobcat scratched me. He was a smell fella so it really startled me. Honestly, I thought it was a house cat with a beard. I was wrong. He took to my face faster than my eyelids could close.
Luckily the attack was quick and vicious and I survived. The bobcat ran off into the pines and my blood coagulated right on time. Sometimes luck hits you during the worst moments of your life — like when you’re being attacked by a wildcat. But then you start comparing fortunes. At least it wasn’t a lynx, or worse yet, a Siberian tiger.
Now I know there are few Siberian tigers in the Appalachians.
But there are even fewer Hunter-Green Subarus. And just one Daddy. And those are the odds you take in this short and tragic life that’s comical in retrospect. When I find Daddy, I’m sure one day that will be funny too.
