Midnight Madness

Just when things couldn’t get worse, they did.

Back when I was invincible, going to the University of South Florida in 1976, my Dad asked me to drop off some engine parts at a garage in north Tampa that worked on English sports cars—in this case, a 1959 MG-A roadster held together by rust, red paint, and duct tape.

The truck I drove (Dad’s ’63 Ford Econoline) wasn’t in much better shape than the MG.

Dad bought the old van from King’s Florists. It was Boxwood Green, right from the factory, but Leon King plastered it with tacky decals, typical of the flower-child generation: Big, colorful, obnoxious. The van had racked up nearly two hundred thousand miles, most of it stop-and-go, delivering Valentine roses, birthday bouquets, Mother’s Day baskets, and fancy floral arrangements for weddings and funerals.

Dropping off the engine parts—even after a long day of classes—was no big deal except the van broke down just as I pulled into the parking lot of Blanchard’s Garage. Ticked me off. Why? Because I still had a long drive to get home and who knew how long it would take to fix. I’m no mechanic, not even a bad one, but old man Blanchard and his teenage son Nick managed to get the van up and running in a couple of hours.

Thank God for that.

So now I’m late, tired, and stink like a wet dog. (Did I mention that Nick, his Dad, and I had to push the van inside the shop just as one of those infamous Tampa thunderstorms hit? Yeah. You could’ve just about predicted that would happen, right?

It’s not like things had been goin’ that great: I was in school on the GI Bill, workin’ crappy jobs: Cleanin’ out septic tanks. Roof-repair. Puttin’ up dry-wall. Deliverin’ newspapers. Know what else? My wife Julia was eight months pregnant and forbiddin’ me from eatin’ peanut butter in the house ’cause it made her sick—and I really love peanut butter: in sandwiches, with ice cream, on celery, and even right out the jar.

Yum.

Could things get any worse? You bet. Julia’s dead-beat step-father, who I’d never met, was coming this weekend, and we’re all supposed to play nice and pretend he never abandoned her as a kid.

Yeah, right, like that’ll happen.

So here I am, blastin’ down U.S. 41, heading to Masaryktown along about midnight, figuring the universe is using me as a kick-can, when I see an old guy draggin’ two big suitcases. Suddenly he turns, drops the luggage, jumps half-way into the highway, and starts swingin’ his arms around like he’s a windmill in a hurricane.

What do I do? Turn the steerin’ wheel, swerve, and with the skill of Richard Petty at the Daytona 500, just miss that sucker, nearly flippin’ the van, skiddin’ into a stop—tires burnin’ smoke, brake pads burnin’ asbestos, and me just plain burned up.

In the middle of all that helter-skelter, the can of Schlitz I had on the dash splashes beer all over the place. Just when the whole crazy episode seems over, I look in my rearview mirror and see this bastard givin’ me a double single-finger salute. That’s when I lose it.

Shiftin’ the van into reverse and guidin’ it usin’ my side mirror, I step on the gas and guestimate how close I can get to this clown without hittin’ him. Turns out, pretty close—bumper-bumpin’ his luggage just a smidge as he high-jumps over the guardrail and tumbles into the Withlacoochee River, where he starts splashin’ around like a 3-year-old in an inflatable kiddie pool.

“I don’t want no trouble,” he yells, as I get out of the van.

“Well, ya got trouble,” I shout, stompin’ in his direction.

(You ought to know this guy was bigger than me by a bunch—and probably not somebody I should have messed with, especially if you’re a runt like me—but, like I said, I was invincible back then.)

“I don’t want no trouble,” he yells again.

Now I’m so stinkin’ mad, and so stinkin’ tired, that I freeze up, like a gun that’s got bullets but can’t fire. My heart pounds, hands shake, and tryin’ to inhale feels like suckin’ oatmeal through a straw.

“Get out of the water, and get into the van,” I shout.

“I don’t want no trouble,” he yells for the third time, waving his water-drenched arms above his head like he’s an upside mix-master whippin’ eggs whites into meringue.

“Get … into … the ... van,” I say, loud, deliberate, and restrained. “I’m not tellin’ you again.”

He crawls out the river, climbs over the guardrail, picks up his luggage, and walks to the van. Then he opens the passenger door and gets in—all without saying a word. Once inside, I toss him an old ratty towel from under the seat and tell him to dry himself off then start cleaning up the spilled beer.

“Just opened that can o’ Schlitz,” I tell him, grittin’ my teeth. “It was fresh—and almost cold.”

“What ya gonna do to me?” the old man asks.

“This is your lucky night,” I said. “Father Kvasnicka preached ’bout the Good Samaritan last Sunday, so I’m gonna take ya where you’re goin’. Be glad he didn’t talk about David and Goliath or I might have put a bullet right through that thick skull of yours.”

He didn’t say much after that—except give me a location: Masaryk Hotel. Knew just where it was. Cheap rooms on the second floor; cheap drinks, restaurant, and a dance hall on the first.

Just in case you never heard of Masaryktown, here’s the deal: It’s north of Tampa in Hernando County and was settled by Slovak and Czech immigrants in the mid-1920s. Oh, yeah. It was named after the first president of Czechoslovakia, Tomáš Garrigue Masaryk. That’s ’bout all you need to know about that.

Anyway, I drop the dude off. He says, “Thanks” and waves. I wave back. Thank God that’s over.

In a few minutes, I’m pullin’ into my parent’s driveway, noticing all the lights in the house are on. Odd. Why isn’t everybody asleep?

No sooner than I walk in the house, Mom says, “Julia’s in labor.”

“You’re kidding,” I said.

“Dad took her to the hospital about 20 minutes ago.”

My shoulders slump. My head tilts down. I start rubbin’ my temples.

“This can’t be happening,” I think.

“Get ya a shower right quick,” Mom says.

“Let’s just go to the hospital,” I reply.

“Ya might be there for days,” she yells. “Get ya a shower right quick!”

Sometimes ya just gotta listen to your Mom. It’s easier that way.

After gettin’ a shower, clean underwear, jeans, new socks, and my Steelers T-shirt, I was ready to go.

“You’re not wearing that shirt are ya?”

“Yup, Mom. I am.”

And that was that.

About a half-hour later, we’re at the hospital. Instead of getting checked in, Julia’s at the check-out counter.

“False alarm,” Dad says.

I’m speechless.

“Mr. Dobrański?” the doctor asks.

“Yes, sir?”

“Your wife and baby are fine. She had what we call Braxton-Hicks contractions.”

“Braxton-Hicks?” I replied.

“They’re sometimes called false labor pains.”

“Labor pains …”

Your wife’s womb contracts and relaxes, and when it does …”

“Whoa,” I tell the doctor. “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa!”

“Means we can go home,” Dad said. “Same thing happened to your Mom. No big deal.”

Saturday, things settles down. Weather’s beautiful. Mom cleans the house and later starts preparing for Sunday dinner. Dad and I putter around the yard. Julia rests. We all get a nice night’s sleep. Life is good.

Sunday greets us with the smell of Vepřoknedlozelo—basically, pork covered in dumplings and sauerkraut. One of my favorites. (Julia, by the way, says sauerkraut makes her sick. I’m starting to worry about how our kid’s gonna turn out.)

The morning is perfect. Beautiful. Sunny. I’d survived the van breaking down, Tampa’s thunderstorm, spilled beer, crazy guy in the road, and a Braxton-Hicks “whatchamacallit.”

Next stop: Saint Mary Our Lady of Sorrows—where the good Lord and a pretty good priest would no doubt bless me and my family. I drop everybody off at the front door, then look for a decent place to park. Everything’s going fine. Then “BAM!” Across the parking lot, I see the crazy guy from Friday night, dressed in his Sunday best.

“Crap,” I think. “What the hell is he doin’ at church?”

Sometimes life gives ya binary choices: Paper or plastic. Hot or cold. Chicken or beef. Fight or flight. Friday night I was ready to fight and nearly did. Today I’m ready to fly away—like it says in that song. But if I learned anything from my Dad—and later the Marines—it was that sometimes ya gotta suck it up, step up, and face things head-on. So I marched through the “Valley of the Shadow of Death,” and said, “You may not remember me but . . .”

“Oh, but I do,” the old guy said. “I remember you very well.”

So I gave him my sob story about the broken-down van, workin’ a bunch of jobs, goin’ to school on the G.I. Bill, my wife’s Braxton-Hicks, and how I was supposed to meet her dead-beat Dad this weekend—all that stuff.

Now this is creepy. Guy doesn’t yell. Doesn’t stomp. Doesn’t throw somethin’ at me. He just stares. Then clears his throat.

“Your wife named Julia?” he asks.

I’m stunned. Can’t say anything. Just nod my head up-and-down like a trained penguin.

Dude looks me in the eye, puts out his hand, and says, “I’m Ned. Julia’s dead-beat Dad.”

Then he smiles.

“Crap,” I think, wondering what to do. So I put out my hand, he grabs it, and we shake.

Now the smiling stops. He clears his throat again.

“I suppose you told Julia about out little face-off last night.”

“Nope,” I reply. “She was already at the hospital.”

“Did you tell her when you got home?”

“Nope,” I said. “By that time I was too tired.”

“Son,” he said. “We’re going to do a little favor for each other and never tell my lovely daughter about what happened last night.”

And we never did. It was our little secret. He brought it to his grave. Someone day I’ll bring it to mine.

One more thing: That Sunday, at Saint Mary’s, Father Kvasnicka preaches from Psalm 103:12.

Here’s what he said, “As far as the east is from the west, so far hath he removed our iniquities from us.”

When the sermon was over, Ned and I look at each other and smile. He gave me a thumbs up. I gave him one back. Then we both bowed our heads in prayer.

And that was the end of that. . .