The Human Lawn Gnome Project
by j.charles @ textproductions
Napa valley is world renowned as the whitest place in California, agreed? I mean wine; money and ridiculously expensive food pretty much wave the white collar playground flag. A place where the elite hide in the hills, the residents hide in the valley, and the two rarely collide.
Ralph Lauren paint coats two story homes big enough to block out the sunset. Superfluous overpriced import vehicles clutter the driveway, and thick, verdant Kentucky blue grass lawns occupy the equivalent of a city block. Ahh, suburbia. A place free from the worries of crime. Free from vandalism and graffiti. A place where you can still “walk down the street at night” and leave the doors unlocked. Until I wake up.
My grandmother’s van this particular year was a mercury villager, probably red and silver two tone, but I was literally drunk when this happened. I had stolen the keys from her purse just before I left. I waited for the heater to come on in the house (to drown out the sound) and jumped into the van. Ignition, reverse, and gas in two well rehearsed seconds. The oil pressure probably hadn’t even built up before I turned the corner. But they knew, my grandparents. As soon as they heard the engine they knew who was in it, which was me, and where it was going, which was the depths of an alcohol binge. They were usually right. Tonight would be, unfortunately for them and the villager, a might bit worse than your average teenage mind could conjure.
A mini van full of turn of the century seventeen year olds can fuck a lot of shit up in just a few short hours. It’s a combination of the independent and invincible spirits. And liquor. And garbage day. You just haven’t lived until you’ve seen a flip top garbage can exploding upon impact. Diapers and cereal boxes and paper plates all over the road. The first time it happened was solely due to chance. I admit that much. I was passing the ‘La’ to the back seat and leaned to the right. The van followed.
Now, if you’re going to try this at home, which you should, just don’t get all fucked up. Or arrested. I would just feel bad knowing I got away with it and you didn’t. This is some fucked up shit.
The scene from the street must have been simply amazing. A two toned baby hauler squealing around your corner, cumulo-nimbus clouds billowing from the driver’s window. Then the pleasant sound of plastic bumper kissing its cousin, plastic trash receptacle. What a fucking sound. This is the most productive accidental misuse of a vehicle, to this very second, that I have ever had the pleasure to be friends with. Far more entertaining than bumper to dairy cow, for example, which aint what it used to be.
Shit only got more interesting with Pheez sticking his white ass halfway out the window and, latching on to plastic with torso clean out of window, yells “go, fucker, go.” So I accelerated, at a medium pace, until tears streamed from Pheez’s eyes, the result of air over drying eyes.
I slowly leaned the van dangerously close to a row of parked cars on the side of the street. The back seat went crazy, yelling and positively reinforcing the vehicular mischief afoot. Pheez literally pulled himself into the van with just enough time to save his life. Hands freshly into the passenger side window, he witnessed closely the carnage that occurs when speeding minivan (a) firmly and intensely kisses with parked car (b). Paint was exchanged. Rio red for metallic red. The mirror on the passenger side was the only thing that made noise as we sped away, the driver (myself) blissfully unaware of the attempted murder I had just committed. The electric cords for the power mirror attached body to rearview, and the rearview swung in the wake of acceleration. Nothing was said for the longest time, everyone shocked into sobriety but me. I was laughing the whole time, commenting on how cool it was to see a garbage can erupt at such high speed.
“You are fucking stupid, dude.” That was malicious, I thought. I assumed we were having fun, and I explained such. “You are an ass. Pull over and look at the side of the van we are in.” I stopped in the middle of browns valley road, turned on my hazards, and walked to the passenger side. There I saw bare metal, black bumper markings, and a gouge that the mustang I hit decided to take out of the front quarter panel. I had totaled my grandparent’s van, and I was drunk as a skunk. More importantly, I could not drive this billboard of drunkenness through alcohol capitol u.s.a.
“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck all of you. Fuck me. Fuck me in the ass with no grease.” I was going back to jail for this. My grandparents were going to report it to the police, which they had every god damned right to, and I was going to go back to juvie. I explained this to Pheez and the rest of the passengers. Pheez got into the passenger seat and took the reigns.
“We are leaving, I’m dropping y’all off, and me and Tex are taking care of some gangster shit. Deal with it, don’t complain.” And they didn’t. I dropped Pheez off at his car. Pheez went into the backyard and returned with a gallon of antifreeze, a crowbar and a garbage bag. We broke out every window in the van once we got to the top of mount veeder, bashed in the instrument cluster, stole the stereo, and destroyed the interior. Then we started it, pried the key out of the ignition (which used to work) and put it in gear. I laid the antifreeze on the break pedal, shifted into “d”. A little acceleration, a little downward descent on its side, and a little engine fire were all it took. That and me getting home before the police called my grandparents “no, I had absolutely nothing to do with the van tonight.”
It must have been stolen, the police assumed. Although there was no damage done to the ignition, and we had all of the key sets at home. Strange. The stereo sat in my garage while the police took a statement from my grandparents and insurance paid out on a brand new car. Later I would find out that my grandmother was happy to be rid of the problematic ford, which is understandable. They would not find out about my drunk driving until age twenty two, and they would never ever (hopefully) find out about what the fuck really happened to their van. I bet garbage was sticking out of the whole passenger side of it while it burned. Go me.