Family Life's Short Story Contest Winner

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My Adventure With a Convertible

By Orlando Llerandi

 

After reading in a book entitled 100 Things You Must Do Before Dying that one most own a convertible car, at least once in one’s lifetime, I told my wife that considering that we were in our late 70s, we should fulfill this “must do” requirement as soon as possible.

She agreed.

I also told her that, being a brunette, she wouldn’t be allowed to drive it since only blonde females are permitted to drive convertible cars.

She disagreed.

A week later, we bought a new Sebring convertible that looked like a shark, black on top with a slender silvery flashing body.

Afterward, I realized that I had some shopping to do in order to blend the fantasy of a sexy automobile with the
image of the driver. So, off shopping I went the following day.

First, I bought a creamy-colored, supple and smooth Panama hat with a wide brim and a black band around it.

Then, a straight L-shaped pipe along with a pouch of chocolate flavored tobacco. I had never smoked a pipe in my life, but this was an accessory that had to be had.

Sunglasses next: Ray-Ban aviator style, dark and impenetrable with a golden frame.

Then, some appropriate clothing: beige Chino pants; very light fabric, long-sleeved, white Greek shirt with no collar; and a pair of white loafers to be wore with no socks.

Finally, a fake, thin, straight black mustache.

Back at home, after dressing up with all these new items, I looked in the mirror and saw the person I wanted to see driving my convertible: a Mediterranean sexy looking and mysterious individual, dressed casually but in good taste, projecting an image of wealth and power. A man that would be the envy of all men and the desire of every woman.

The following day, a cool early autumn Sunday morning, I drove my convertible out of the garage and was just finishing retracting the top when my wife joined me dressed for the occasion, also: dark sunglasses with wide tortoise frame, black pants, light silky long-sleeved red blouse, and a large straw Pamela red hat.

Before driving off, I ran a mental checklist to make sure that everything was in order. Sunglasses clean, hat positioned in the correct angle, shirt with the top two buttons undone, mustache in place, and top and windows down.

Then, I lighted my pipe.

After merging onto Highway 92, I accelerated until the car reached the legal cruising speed of 45 mph. The wind felt cold and blew hard against our faces.

I looked at my wife with a satisfying smile on my face, which soon changed into a smirk when I saw that her lips were turning blue, and her cheeks were the color of raw meat.

“What’s happening to you? Your face is changing color.”

“I think it’s too cold to be driving with the top down. I’m freezing. At least pull up the windows,” she requested, trembling.

Following her request, but not being familiar with the locations of the different command switches in the new car, I took my eyes off the road and started to look around for the switch that operates the windows. Then, I looked back to the road and back again to the control panel.

As I was moving my eyes up and down, a rush of wind took possession of my Panama hat, which flew up and away like a kite. In the split second when I noticed that the hat was about to separate from my head, I made a sudden movement with my left hand trying to hold it in place, but it was too late.

The only thing I achieved was to knock the pipe out of my mouth, making it land on the back seat of the car.

“Oh my God,” yelled my wife in panic. “The burning ashes came out of the pipe and are all over the seat.”

I drove off the road immediately and stopped the car.

After getting out of the car, I went to the back seat, took the burning ashes with my handkerchief, and threw them away along with the hanky. Still infuriated by the stupid accident, I also threw away the pipe followed by the pouch of tobacco.

I looked back, trying to spot my hat, but all I could see was a white object jumping from side to side off the road, over which cars and trucks were rolling at top speed.

Re-entering the car, I felt exhausted and frustrated. At that point, my wife made the final humiliating comment: “Your mustache is hanging from just one end.”

I ripped the false accessory off my face and threw it away also.

“Let’s go home,” I said.

“That’s fine with me, but before you start driving, please — put the top back up.”

I did.

“Listen,” I said. “I’m nervous and irritated, so I think it would be best if you drove the car back home.”

“Excuse me, but not being a blonde woman, I’m not allowed to drive this car,” she responded with a sweet voice and making a face I knew so well: eyes looking way up, eyelids opening and closing in quick succession, lips showing a subtle smile, and head tilted to the side.

“Well, never mind about what I said before, you can drive the car now.”

“Do you mean now as in now only, or now as in every time I need the car?”

Take no prisoners, I thought.

“Okay, you could use the car at any time,” I conceded.

Going back home, I kept very quiet while my wife was humming a song, playing drums with her fingers on the steering wheel, and a Mona Lisa smile on her face.

 

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Thank You to All Who Shared Short Stories With Us!

We received an entertaining assortment of thoughtful, well written submissions that covered a variety of topics, and we appreciated reading each one. We truly enjoyed “visiting” the succinct worlds you created, which inspired us to feel a wide array of emotions.