A Final Drive

[Guest guest]

A Final Drive

Fanta Shyer

Years ago, my father developed a casual friendship with the owner of a gas

station a mile and a half from his apartment. The fellow's name was i and it

was only by chance that Daddy became loyal to his particular set of pumps. Once,

driving through that neighborhood, and imagining his front left tire needed air,

he pulled into i's place instead of the gas station nearer home where he'd

been getting his car serviced for years.

On that occasion, in one of those little twists of fate that changes people's

lives, it began to drizzle, When my father turned on his windshield wipers, one

broke and began smearing the windshield instead of clearing it of rain. i

fiddled with the wiper without being able to fix it, and it was determined that

it would have to be replaced. This meant having to order one from the

manufacturer, and also meant that Daddy and i would meet again-and as it

turned out, again and again, since weeks passed before the wiper arrived at the

station. Daddy stopped by every time a drop fell out of the sky to remind i

his windshield was still a streaked mess, and that it was taking much too long

to get his new wiper. On one of these occasions, Daddy overheard i in a

telephone conversation.

" Were you speaking German? " he asked when i emerged from his office.

" I was, " i said. One would actually not have had to ask that question, since

i's accent alone sounded as if his mouth was full of sauerkraut.

" I also speak German, " my father offered. I believe initially his intention was

to create an ethnic bond in the interests of expediting the arrival and

installation of his windshield wiper. Oddly, neither one of these two

German-speaking-middle-Europeans was from Germany. My father was born in Prague,

and i was a native of Vienna. I know now that these cities are linked by a

three-hour train ride, and that they are in fact bound together not only by

language, but by a whole history of similar tradition and cuisine. Although

Czechs traditionally love their beer, it also turned out that both my father and

i loved a certain Austrian wine, created for generations by a Viennese

family named Prager.

The wine lovers' relationship grew. By that I mean that my father began to

patronize i's station exclusively. When my father's beloved nine-year-old,

twelve-year-old, then fourteen-year-old Buick needed new tires, brakes, or

headlights, i came to the rescue. When the car's horn mysteriously began to

beep at every left turn, i found the loose wire-no charge. At Christmas,

year after year, my father presented i with a bottle of the beloved Prager

wine. Discounts on gas and service followed.

And then, one day, my father asked me if I could go with him to visit his sister

Hannah, in Brno.

" Daddy, " I said, " Hannah died twenty years ago. "

" Oh yes, " he said. " It just slipped my mind. "

My father's wife and I decided it was time Daddy give up his driver's license

and his Buick. We made an appointment with i, but she stayed at home. " I

can't watch him part with his car, " she said. " I can't. I'll cry. It's his

life. "

So I was appointed, and followed my father in my own car, first through the car

wash, and then to the gas station. There I met i for the first time.

He was a tall man with a gray moustache and eyebrows that looked as if he'd

pasted them on. I thought he looked stereotypically Sicilian and nothing like

the Austrian oenophile I'd imagined.

" No problem. I find a buyer. You and I have kept that baby in gut shape. Just

leave it with me, " he said, patting the old Buick's newly-shined hood.

I watched my father step out of his beloved heap and hand the keys to i. I

saw the way his shoulders sagged, the glimmer of moisture in his eyes. I wanted

to put my arms around him, but didn't do it. It would only emphasize his loss; I

held off.

" Wait, " i said, as Daddy began to walk away toward the passenger side of my

relatively new Honda.

" I brought for this occasion a certain special bottle of wine. We, for sure,

have time for a toast to friendship, no? "

As he poured us each a few inches of Prager's red, I saw my father's shoulders

straighten, his eyes brighten. Daddy would be forgetting this moment, and his

Buick, very soon. For now, he raised his plastic tumbler and clicked it against

i's.

He looked at me. " A little wine? Why not? I'm not driving today. " he said.

i raised his " glass " high. " Prosit, my friend! " he said.

" Prosit, " Daddy echoed, " to a good friendship, " he added, and he finished every

drop