Since Dad got us on the weekends growing up, Sunday nights were spent driving back to mom’s. We would crank up the music, roll down the windows, and cock the side mirrors just right, grabbing sideway glances of our Rock-n-Roll faces. One particular night though, Billy Idol got the best of me.
We were on the last song of the album and dad announced, “We have five good minutes before we are at your mom’s. TURN IT UP!” I tinkered with the missing knob and got lucky. Billy Idol’s, “Mony, Mony” blasted through the speakers. Rock-n-Roll! I joined in screaming the words, drumming the dashboard—the usual.
As we coasted into a red light, I looked over and saw that Dad was taking tonight’s sing-a-long to a whole new level. He had taken our basic nod and advanced it to throwing his head violently back and forth-the headbang. Oh dear Lord, the headbang. I couldn’t just sit there and whip my hair back and forth (shout-out to Willow) with the aficionado of headbangers, there was a style and technique to deliver. I went at it and tried my hardest. The high five he gave me fueled my need to impress even more.
My eyes crossed, my neck ached, and it was so dark I could barely see my flailing hands. But I had to keep going. I couldn’t stop until the song was over. And…Smack! I face-planted into the dashboard. Did he see that? I hope he didn’t see that. I think I cracked the dashboard…with my face? No surely not.
Dad sang in excitement, “Mony Mo-Mo- Mony!” I panicked from his enthusiasm and acted like nothing had happened. Just keep going and maybe you can get out of here without him noticing the dashboard. I felt dizzy and with every forward whip of the neck I fought the gag reflex. My face hurt. I felt my nose starting to run and wiped it with the sleeve of my shirt. To make matters worse, dad turned the music down to suggest I chill out a little since he felt me slinging snot on him. Jeez, this is just hurting my pride. I quit. The song ended, and we rounded the corner, pulling into my mom’s driveaway. I grew anxious to see the crack in the dash. How bad is it? It felt…not good. Dad opened the door and the lights came on.
Ding, Ding, Ding, like in a horror film, the dinging of the car door conjured even more terror for the approaching scene.
“Oh, my Gosh, Jacklyn! What happened?!”
Blood was everywhere: on the windshield, on my clothes, and, on my dad. I had unknowingly busted my nose on the dashboard, and out of pride and fear, I kept going—making sweet memories with my dad. My attempt to hang with the best of ‘em, and I was forever placed in the “nose bleed section.” -ohbygolly