Last Rides Premium Selects: Winded

With the holidays upon us, it seems fitting to share this cornucopia … from minivan hell.

On the surface, this 2003 Windstar appeared relatively sharp in comparison to the 30 other examples present.

Then you open the door, and the debris of someone’s life comes spilling out.

But who piloted this transporter? To the untrained eye, one would spot the primordial film, and develop an unsub similar to the one who drove the disgusting Sedona featured previously. Upon further inspection of the contents however, it appears that this example hasn’t descended quite to the level of C.H.U.D. I can’t be too tough on the protag though, as there are some parallels between this thing and the current state of my own personal vehicle. I draw the line at clutter in the driver’s footwell and schmutz on the door handles though. What?! I’ve just been really busy lately!

Amidst the chaotic rubble of a hectic lifestyle, there are library books, and items of at least some value left behind. Several clues suggested that a teacher operated this hauler. It was also marked as an impound and offered up this bit of evidence.

I suppose teachers are only human.

Rebecca was drowning.

“Hello, Mr. Barker? This is Miss Benson,” Rebecca said over the corded line.

“Yes, I’m Billy’s art teacher,” she continued somewhat nervously. “Well, we had a bit of an incident involving your son here today.” Rebecca could already sense that the man on the other end was taking a defensive stance, but she pressed on. “It seems that Billy held a girl down at recess and then threatened, and I’m quoting here, he was going to ‘ … fart in her mouth so she could taste his feces.'”

There was muted laughter on the other end of the line, then the father responded: “That ain’t my kid. Billy would never do that. He don’t even know what ‘feces’ is.”

Rebecca let out a despondent breath. She was totally unsurprised by this parental reaction. In fact, it was more the norm, rather than the exception when dealing with the cadre of little hellraisers that subverted the rest of her art class.

The classroom resembled the 38th floor of Nakatomi Plaza after a firefight. The keyboard and mouse of a PC hung off a desk by their wires and blue craft paper littered the desks and floor. She surveyed the works on the papers, mostly unintelligible scribbles, and half-hearted efforts. One desk had a serene picture of Cinderella’s castle with a happy family standing in the foreground. The corner was labled “Naomi.” Rebecca smiled for a brief moment, then she cleaned up the wreckage. She had to be headstrong — and keep the farts out of Naomi’s mouth.

Miss Benson dodged the last departing school bus on her way to the trusty Ford. Her gait was impeded not by the heavy tote of blue paper, but by an extraneous 100 pounds of body weight. She rolled the door open and tossed the tote in the back seat. She let out an exhausted breath, remembering the recall on the seat. It had been off-limits to passengers for nearly a year now. “Some day” she would get around to taking the van in. However, it seemed to be just fine in its new role as cargo shelving.

She waddled around to the front door, and pulled herself up into the seat. As she waited for her own children to slowly appear, Rebecca cleared some trash aside, and tried to give “Nickel and Dimed” another go. By the time she heard Anthony and Sabrina slide the door open, she was put off yet again by the author’s pompous attitude and flawed concept. Furthermore, it offered little insight into how it pertained to her own place in class. She let the book tumble over her shoulder, where little Anthony agitated it into place in the foundation layer of items.

“Mom, can we hook the Xbox to the screen in here?” the boy asked. Rebecca didn’t even bother to put any thought into the suggestion, answering, “No. It won’t work.” The man-child she was dating was probably back home from work by now, and the gaming machine was, no doubt, in use anyway. Rebecca squinted into the impossibly small, worthless, convex child mirror to ensure little Sabrina was secure in her booster seat. Then she pulled the shifter into gear.

The Windstar rode the waves on Route 53’s truck-worn pavement like a laden garbage scow. Rebecca collected her 17 year old from the side of the high school as requested, who quickly hopped into the front passenger seat. Cynthia kept the door open interval to a minimum out of embarrassment. Drake was quickly silenced on the radio, and the girl plugged her phone into the tape adapter.

Tell me what you see

That last line held a special connotation for Rebecca. She actually had a “baby daddy,” a real worthless one, too. She wondered if he was even still alive, and turned the volume back down just enough to subdue the faint creaking sound coming from the back.

That’s when she noticed Anthony jumping around in the middle row, “making it rain” with the blue craft paper. “Anthony! Get back in your seatbelt! And clean that mess up!” The little boy obliged, replying, “It fell over, Mommy.”

Next on the order of things was finding something to eat for dinner. Rebecca had been starving for approximately 13 minutes. There was no time for a healthy choice.

“I’m gonna get sandwiches from Fat Ricky’s,” she declared. The name “Fat Ricky’s” was ever so slightly off-putting to an overweight person in much the same way as it was for a crack addict to visit the “crack dealer.”

“What about pizza?” Cynthia asked. Rebecca knew that a deep-dish pie would really hit the spot, but there was no waiting an hour for such bliss. Although, they did have regular crust to-go.

“If I’m gonna not eat healthy, I’m gonna go all out,” she thought to herself. She stopped herself from saying that aloud. She knew the sack of gourmet sandwiches she was about to purchase was hardly the sort of thing she could find in the health-food book somewhere on the floor. Even Anthony would chuckle at that kind of sense.

She placed the family’s order at the speaker, and realized that she wasn’t going to make it all the way back to Bolingbrook without ripping into a hoagie. “Mommy. I can’t find my Barbie,” said Sabrina. “QUIET!” Rebecca roared, adding “… and I’ll take two large fries please.”

The van climbed back up Route 53. The occupants distributed the greasy fries, along with the ketchup packets necessary. The Bensons then committed to family ritual, slashing the sauce packets with their teeth, and squirt/sucking the contents directly into their mouths before each bite. Rebecca carelessly tossed the spent wrappers to the floor. There they were juxtaposed with “The Firm” DVD, turning the Windstar into a rolling shadowbox, perfectly displaying an American tragedy.

The Bensons worked their way through the droves coming out of Ikea and pulled into the driveway of the raised ranch home.

The kids bolted out with the food like greyhounds, leaving Rebecca to lug in their backpacks. She did this courtesy so as to make the “Do your homework!” nagging, destined to come later in the evening, go more smoothly.

Rebecca lost her footing on some dirty clothes spilling out of the laundry room, where her boyfriend Dave greeted her arrival.

“You all didn’t get me any damn fries?” he mumbled with a mouthful of food. The Bensons quietly chomped, while “Call Of Duty” menu music repeated in the background. “You got some mail.” Dave told Rebecca.

She sounded an over-exerted grunt as she raised herself from the table. Waiting on the counter was another red notice from Illinois Secretary Of State regarding some legal matters pertaining to her vehicle. She deemed it of moderate import, and sorted it atop the unopened letter from Ford for another rear axle recall.

The following morning began the same as any other.

“Anthony! Where are your pants?!” Rebecca yelled to her son. The boy leaped from the Xbox controller, wearing only white briefs. “I don’t got any clean ones,” he answered, running back to his bedroom.

Rebecca’s back was sore. She rubbed it, contemplating the effects of her obesity on her health. It was no longer something that could be ignored, especially after seeing the Bodyworlds exhibit. She eased herself into the Windstar. Realizing she was the only one inside, she depressed the besmudged center of the steering wheel for 10 full seconds. At first, the only reaction seemed to be an angry scowl on a neighbor, then the kids appeared. Anthony climbed inside, happily consuming an enormous slice of birthday cake on a dinner plate. Rebecca reached for the key, and with a twist, produced an alarming grind of gears.

“Not this again,” she lamented. Upon trying again, the engine cranked to life normally. “It’s just a thing it does, I guess,” she informed her concerned children.

The school day was again at a close. Miss Benson walked out to the minivan while conversing with Dave over how her day went.

“… and then he rubbed two fingers over the other boy’s face, and said ‘I can taste your stink.‘”

Dave laughed from the Samsung’s speaker, “Oh shit. That from the Matrix. Hahaha!”

The children funneled into the cluttered van, and they were once again, all on their way to collect Cynthia from across town. Rebecca had to circle around the school to avoid some band activity, and parked in the front. This earned her a tongue-lashing from her daughter. “I told you to stay on the siiiiide,” she whined, subconsciously feeling the gaze of a hundred of her peers upon the grey trashvan.

Rebecca pulled out onto Taylor Road and waited for the light. She eyed the apple sitting on the dash, and contemplated taking a bite. However, the wonderful plume that she saw earlier coming from Burger King’s chimney made her wistful. The light turned green, and she was charmed across lanes by the flame-broiled allure. Cynthia had the volume knob cranked to Teen Angst, so when Anthony yelled “Mommy, a fire truck!” it just barely grabbed her attention.

The minivan swerved, dumbstruck. Rebecca brought it off to the shoulder, still at a 35 mph pace. The fire engine roared past, but the police interceptor in trail went hard on the brakes in order to quickly form up on the Windstar’s tailgate. “Shit!” Rebecca squealed.

Rebecca was taken into custody over a matter of unpaid fines, and the elapsed registration that resulted. Cynthia watched the Windstar being dragged up a flatbed, while holding hands with her siblings on the roadside. The police car departed with their lawbreaking mother.

“Let’s go,” said Cynthia, leading the children to a location where Dave could pick them up. A location as far away from the high school as possible. She jammed Sabrina’s booster seat under an arm, and dragged the little ones along the busy street. “Cynthia!” someone shouted from a passing Maxima.

The tow truck passed them with the bouncing Windstar. Sabrina suddenly broke down in hysteria. “MY BARBIE!!!” Cynthia tugged her sister back to her feet. “Get up!” she screamed. “My homework’s in there,” added Anthony with an air of blasé.

“This is sooooo embarrassing.”