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Thirty-Six
For the second time today, I’m behind the wheel of Nick’s Jeep (a miracle, I know). It’s nearly midnight when I pull up to the iron gate of the storage facility and punch in the code.
“What are we doing here?” Nick asks.
“You’ll see.” I park Nick’s Jeep and we hike up the aisle of garages to number 382. As I lift the door open, a wave of heat streams out of my unit. It’s as dark as a cave inside.
“Would you mind turning on your flashlight?” I ask.
Nick and I aim our phone torches inside, shedding a light on a 1981 black Jeep Laredo, specks of dust swirling in the glare.
“Holy shit! You still have this?” Nick walks over and places his hand on the round headlight.
“Of course,” I say, smiling at the old hunk like it’s my Uncle Jeep. “Can you help me push it out of the garage?”
I climb in, release the brake, and shift it to neutral. With Nick at the back and me wedged in the driver’s side door, we throw our weight forward. The Jeep inches on and I steer it in place, the same way my dad would when we’d get stuck on the road. “Okay, that’s good,” I say when it’s nearly all the way out of the garage. I step back and take in the relic beneath the glow of security lights and the moon. It hasn’t aged a day.
“This is so badass,” Nick says, running his hand along the hood. I snort a laugh. My dad would’ve liked him.
“Hop in,” I say, taking the driver’s seat, and I reach for my dad’s handcrafted wooden urn tucked away in the back. The vase-shaped surface is smooth, save for some dust, and it’s heavier than I remember. “I think you put on some weight, Pop,” I say, heaving it onto the center console.
“What’d you say?” Nick asks.
“Not you. This. This is my old man.”
“You keep your dad’s ashes in a storage facility?”
“When you say it like that it sounds bad but yeah, he wanted to be buried with his Jeep.”
“Should I have brought my big shovel?”
I giggle. “Now there’s the start of a funny joke. Two comedians diggin’ a grave for a Jeep. One says to the other—”
“Let’s bury you instead?” Nick adds, and I shoot him a look. “Too dark?”
“Are you kidding? Look where we are.” No way Nick could’ve conceived of this scenario when he warned me to be prepared for anything. I know I couldn’t.
“So, you gonna take him on a drive?” he asks.
If only that were possible. When you’re raised by a man, you learn to communicate like a man. Not face-to-face but shoulder to shoulder. If we ever needed to talk about something important or hard, he’d take me for a drive. And it worked. Somehow it was always easier to say what I was feeling when I could stare out at the road ahead. “Nah, I doubt the Jeep would run after being benched for all this time.”
“Okay, well, why don’t I leave you two to catch up? I’ll wait in the parking lot.”
“Thanks. I won’t be long.”
“Take your time.” He begins walking away but stops short and turns back. “Wait, do you mind if I talk to him for a second?”
“Um, okay...”
Nick wedges himself in the open door and leans on the frame. “Hey, Mr. Vincent—”
“You can call him Vince,” I say, watching a guy I could see myself bringing home to meet my dad have some kind of moment with his remains. It’s a thoughtful gesture, given the circumstances.
Nick clears his throat. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s a little nervous. How sweet. “Right, Vince. I’m Nick Leto. I’m on tour with your daughter. But you probably already know that because you’re um... you know.” I press my lips together, keeping a chuckle at bay while Nick navigates this conversation. “Anyway, I haven’t known Olivia long but I feel like I’ve gotten to know her pretty well over the last week and a half. And I know when you were alive, you weren’t too thrilled about her performing stand-up. If I had a daughter, I might feel the same way. It’s tough but she’s really good. She makes people laugh. From what I know about you, that’s something you’d appreciate.
“So I wanted to say I think you’d be proud of her. I know you’re worried about her taking care of herself but you don’t have to because she’s pretty badass. I don’t know many women who can teach a man how to change a tire on the side of the Jersey turnpike.”
With his heartfelt words, the mood shifts from awkward to sincerely tender. Quiet tears cascade down my cheeks. And I let them. Because as I grew up, I just wanted my dad to be proud of me. I never really knew for sure if he was because he wouldn’t come out and say it. Instead, he’d say, You did good, Livy. You did good.
