THE RIDE FROM HELL

My father never owned a car. Why would he. He could walk to any place in Southie and if he had to go farther afield there was a wonderful bus and subway system that could take him there. In the 1950’s I worked the night shift with my Father at Joe’s Spa. After closing the restaurant we would head for home. My Father was 39 years older than me. He was in his mid fifties and I was a teenager at the time. Up East Broadway we would head at a pace I couldn’t maintain. I’d fall behind then race to catch up, time and time again. When we got home at 2:00 A.M in City Point near the L St. Bathhouse he would stop and tell me to take in deep breaths of the wonderful sea air. All I wanted to do was to get into my bed. He loved to walk. No wonder he lived to be almost 103.

Sometimes we would get an offer for a ride home. If the bakery delivery guy ended his route at the Spa then he would make the offer. I should describe the van he drove. Basically it was a large high box on wheels. It had no seats except for a stool like seat for the driver. But get this, it had no doors. That way he could make his deliveries without wasting time opening and closing doors. He thought of himself as an Indianapolis race driver. The major difference was the van’s center of gravity was much higher than an Indy race car. As he drove at break neck speeds around the corners his van would barely keep all of its wheels on the ground. My father and I held on for dear life. It was a white knuckle ride from hell. He literally got us home in minutes.

I often had nightmares of being thrown from the door less van. Even today I get chills talking about it. I wish my father had refused those rides.