I’m leafing through my mail as I walk up my sidewalk to my porch. That’s when I hear it—the telltale sound of a very large and very bad for the environment recreational vehicle, better known as an RV. Turning my head, I sigh at the sight of it as it pulls up to the curb in front of my side of the duplex. As it stops, it makes the same hissing sound as a Greyhound bus, because it’s essentially the size of, well, a Greyhound bus.
No worries, it’s a happy sigh. I step up onto my porch and turn to face the vehicle. That’s when I catch movement to my left. Sam has just emerged from his half of the duplex. I glance at him and give him a small smile, but my attention is drawn back to the RV. I watch as the front door opens slowly. A woman emerges. I swear to you, I half expect smoke to billow around her as she places one Birkenstock-clad foot onto the ground, like an alien landing or a scene from a disco movie. It’sthatdramatic. I watch as my dad does the exact same thing, except he’s hobbling a bit more than Mom, plus he’s wearing his trusty brown loafers. No matter what the man wears, shorts, swimsuit, tuxedo, he’salwayswearing his brown loafers. Once his feet hit the grass, he raises his arms above his head and begins to stretch. He bends at the waist to the right, then left. I’ve seen it a million times, and no matter how ridiculous he looks, it always makes me smile.
“You know them?” Sam asks, pulling my eyes and thoughts away from the only man I’ve ever loved.
I nod.
“Grandparents?” he queries.
“Parents.” Yeah, I know what he must be thinking. My parents are old-ish. “I was an oops baby.” I peek over at him to see if he understands. He’s frowning, which I take as a sign that he doesn’t have a clue what I mean. “I was an accident.” That’s the way most people say it, but it was no accident that my parents are, and have always been,veryaffectionate with one another. Mom was forty-three when they had me. That’s not uncommon these days, but thirty-two years ago, it was rather shocking.
A shiver runs down my spine thinking about my seventy-five-year-old and seventy-nine-year-old parents doingthe deed. Hell, I’m surprised there weren’t more “oops” babies in my family, as much as they go at it.Unfortunately, I’ve seen it firsthand.I mean … lock the damn bathroom door for god’s sake, Mom and Dad!
“Colette!” my mom shouts.
“Hey, Mom.” I smile. “Dad.”
“Hey, Colly,” Dad says with a smile. He’s always called me Colly. Sure, it sounds like a breed of dog, but I’m used to it. Besides, he’s got nicknames for all of us. None are especially original. Case in point, my oldest sister, Candy, he calls Candy Cane. See what I mean about the creativity? No matter. What he lacks in creativity, he makes up with pure love. My dad’s the best. Next in line is Carla. He calls her Carly Simon. Connie is ConCon, and my brother Chris was Christopher Columbus.
Bending down, he touches his toes several times in a bouncing motion to stretch his back out. When he stands, he points at the large black pickup parked in the driveway. “Wow. Get a look at that truck, Sonia.” He glances at Mom and gives her a wink. “I’d love a big truck like that.”
“Now, Stephen, you know darned well I’d need a ladder to get up into that thing, because Lord knows you’d never be able to lift me with your back.”
Ignoring Mom’s obvious rejection of his dream vehicle, he turns to me. “This isn’t yours, is it, Colly?”
If he’d just look to his right, he’d see my little compact hatchback with the dent in the passenger side door. (Not my fault.) I glance over at Sam, who’s still watching the scene before me, his arms are crossed over his chest as he smirks.
And what a smirk it is…
Then Sam says in his deep, sexy voice. “It’s mine, sir.”
Sir?
My dad’s going to love him.
“Oh?” That’s the moment Mom notices Sam. It’s also the moment she makes a beeline for the porch. Wrapping me up in her arms, she squeezes me tightly. Pulling away from me, she places her hands on her hips, smiles at Sam, and asks in her cheeriest voice, “And who are you?”
I don’t let him speak. Using my thumb, I point it in his general direction. “Sam. My new neighbor.”
“What’s the horsepower on that behemoth?” My dad has made it to the porch now, and he’s got me pulled in tightly just like Mom did, but he’s still talking about the stupid truck.
“Four-seventy-five.”
My dad whistles. “I bet that thing can haul ass.”
I snicker because it’s funny when my dad cusses.
“It sure can.”
“I’d love to see under the hood.” My dad doesn’t bother with pleasantries. He goes right for it. The man is a motorhead, for sure. And not just about trucks. He spent more time researching RVs than he has driving it. He knows everything about them. I wouldn’t ask him about it, though. Not unless you want to lose two hours of your life.
“Come on. Let me show you.” I watch as Sam steps down from the porch and begins to walk over to the truck.
My dad follows, raising his hand for Sam to shake. “Steve.”
“Sam.”
“Nice to meet you, son.”
