The Green Goblin

Pop had a 1975 Ford F-150 when we were growing up, pea green and covered in rust and Bondo. It had no air conditioning.

If I close my eyes, I can still smell the interior - vinyl and old motor oil, with just a hint of the farmer's cigarette smoke from whom my dad bought the truck for $250.

We called it the Green Goblin.

Dad was working midnight shifts one summer, and slept during the day. One July morning, racked with boredom, I sneaked the keys off his dresser and hopped aboard, driving to the next town over to pick up my best friend for a day of catfishing on the Kanawha River. I was 12 years-old.

Ours was a small town. What few people lived in the small patch of land between the river and railroad tracks were all familiar. I knew their names as well as they knew mine. It was no surprise, then, that the first car I passed on the highway had behind its wheel a familiar face: my social studies teacher from the sixth grade. Instinctively, I waved. He held up his index finger in return, and nodded his head, a common gesture of recognition.

It was the end of my summer, or so I thought. I'd be doomed to hours spent splitting logs for winter, or mowing mine and my grandmother's grass each week instead of trading off with my brother. I'd surely get the switch, as well.

I was never caught.

In adulthood, I've told my father stories, stunts I've pulled that have outlived the statute of limitations. And so it was I recently explained my joyride in the Green Goblin over coffee and biscuits at his kitchen table.

He smiled.