Last time we were here in Australia we had the worst rental car experience of all time. I wrote about it then and you can read about the entire debacle here.
In quick summary, these Aussie rental car sheisters overcharged my credit card by $9000 and forced us to drive all the way across Australia to return the car in Perth instead of allowing us to drop it off at their local South Australia office.
But a few days ago, I wrote about my farsighted farmer father’s fortuitious foray into the field of fertilizer, and it made me realize I’ve had another rental car experience that was worse than the one here in Australia. Much worse, in fact.
Please strap yourself into the Way Back Machine as we set the dial for 1966:
During my teenage years, my dad made me work on the dairy every Saturday and Sunday during the school year, plus seven days a week during the summer. God, I hated it. From my perspective, the only good thing that came from that work was that he paid me the same wage he paid all his other workers. Combine that with the fact that I’m a compulsive saver and you will realize that I probably had far more disposable income than most of the kids I went to school with.
So when I was a senior in high school, I emptied out my bank account and paid cash for a brand new, bright yellow 1965 Chevrolet Malibu. This was back when the Malibu was a cool, sporty car — long before it became the bloated model grandparents drive today.
About a year later, my parents informed me that they were going out of town for a few days and that I was being left in charge of the dairy. I was given strict orders to keep an eye on things, and the last words spoken by my dad before he climbed into his car were, “Don’t go anywhere.”
Of course, I was a teenage boy, so I completely ignored his explicit instructions. As soon as their car disappeared around the corner, I jumped into my new car and headed for San Diego, about 100 miles away, to visit a buddy.
Halfway there a car stopped in front of me and I had to slam on my brakes to avoid a rear end collision. Unfortunately, the driver behind me did not follow suit and I looked into my rear view mirror just in time to see his car slam into mine at 60 miles per hour. The crash was deafening. It curled the rear end of my car up into my rear window.
The tow truck driver hauled my now destroyed Malibu back to San Bernardino and dropped me off just up the street from the dairy. I knew, however, that my wrecked car wasn’t my biggest worry, because I still had to tell my dad that I had disobeyed his direct orders.
I had it all thought out. I decided I would allow my parents to return home, relax a little, tell me about their trip out of town, and only then would I gently reveal what had happened. Maybe after an hour or two. In my fantasy, it was going to go perfectly.
Then they walked in the door. My dad’s first words were, “Where’s your car?”
For god’s sake, man, he didn’t even bother with a caring, “How are you?” Nor did he waste time with any sweet, loving words about how much he had missed me.
Nope. He wasn’t in the house five seconds when he said, “Where’s your car?”
I had no choice but to reveal the truth in all its horror. Not only had my bright yellow 1965 Malibu been destroyed, but it had been destroyed while I was disobeying his orders.
Much to my surprise, he took it very calmly. He slowly shook his head from side to side as if to demonstrate his extreme disappointment in me. And then he said, “I’m going to have to think about this overnight.”
I didn’t sleep much that night, worrying about what kind of horrible punishment he would mete out. In my mind, it might be flogging. It might be death. But I knew it was going to be horrible and even worse, I knew that I deserved whatever happened.
So the next morning he shocked me by saying, “You scrimped and saved for 16 years to buy that car and now you wrecked it. I figure you’ve been punished enough.”
Oh, my god. Was it possible that my dad had suddenly been transformed into a pussycat?
No such luck. He continued.
”But you still need a car to get to school and back. So here’s what I’m going to do. You’re going to drive the shit truck until your car is fixed. And you’re going to pay me $2 a day in rent.”
And that’s exactly what happened. I was forced to drive his dented, manure-covered dump truck everywhere I went for the next several months. And even worse, all the money I made milking cows went back to him to pay the rent he charged me on that godawful vehicle.
I’m reasonably confident that I may be the only person in the history of the world who has ever paid 100% of his income to rent a dented, shit-covered dump truck.
Definitely the worst car rental experience in history.
This story made my day!!!
I swear to the God I can’t imagine how we’re not related. You never told me your father was a Bill too, but that doesn’t surprise me one bit now that I’ve heard this story. Here’s one I bet you can relate to:
My father – also Bill Harper – was one of those unique people who knew what he wanted to be from the day he was born. Being a disc jockey was just part of his DNA. So much so that at 15 he created his own radio station in the attic of his parent’s house in St. Louis, MO.
One afternoon, two FCC agents knocked on the door, having triangulated his illegal broadcasting operation over several weeks, and angrily confiscated his crystal – reading him the riot act in the process and threatening him within an inch of his life if he dared to broadcast again without a license. Most kids would have been scared out of their whits and I’m sure the agents expected their arrival to have a swift and immediate impact, but after half an hour of arguing one of the agents finally took off his hat and said, “Kid, just go get a job at a real radio station.” Two things were cemented in my father that day – first, that determination in critical in achieving your goals, and second, that he had become a real radio man.
I give you this pre-story so you have a sense of the man we’re dealing with.
Fast forward to 1985. I’m a sophomore in high school. It’s exam week and I’m supposed to be studying, but I’m not. I’m on the phone with Marcy Nichols. I’m on the phone with Marcy because I think she’s the greatest thing since sliced bread. I’m on the phone with Marcy because she just broke up with Eddie Horwitz. I’m on the phone with Marcy because this is my Big Chance. Nothing’s going to derail this call.
My father enters my room and, with a look of surprise says, “It’s exam week, get off the phone. You should to be studying. By the way, tomorrow is trash day.” Marcy is on a roll, telling me what a jerk-face Eddie has been. This is better than Who Shot J.R. I look up at dad, cover the phone and say, “Just a minute, dad. I’m on the phone.”
I should have known better and just let it go there.
15 minutes later my father appears at my door again. I am, of course, still on the phone. He looks down and says, “I told you to get off the phone and that it’s trash day. Get it done.” But now, Marcy is crying. How can I leave her at a time like this? I foolishly/boldly say to my father, “Dad, Marcy’s crying. I’ll be off in a minute.” My father gives me a look but says nothing, and leaves the room. Could this be a victory? Did we connect man to man? Marcy asks if I’m still there – would I be anywhere else? All else is forgotten.
Now, it’s important to understand the room setting for the next part to make sense. My bed was against the same wall as the door to my room, and I was sitting on the floor, looking out the window as we talked. Meaning, I had my back to the door. What I saw next confused me at first. Another 15 minutes had passed when my father entered the room. I saw his reflection in the mirror and knew my time was up. I was quickly crafting my exit statement to Marcy in my head when I saw dad lift something over his head – and suddenly… I was covered in trash. My father silently upended the entire can over my head. I don’t just mean one from the kitchen, either – this was the big, green, plastic yard can. He had collected trash from the entire house. My room was suddenly a landfill. Mount Trashmore. Dad then calmly set the can down and said, “Whenever you’re ready”, then left the room.
20 minutes later, I had collected everything and came out of my room fully expecting a lecture. To my amazement, I saw that he was fast asleep. Having made his point, he and my mom had gone to bed to let me sort it out for myself. I stood there with that trashcan in my hands for a long, long time in that hallway. Watching my father sleep, I imagined returning the favor and declaring my manhood. I stood just a few feet from the bed. All I had to do was turn the can upside down and the deed would be done.
At his eulogy, I told the story about my father with nothing but love and respect in my heart for the man who taught me so much. His methods weren’t always traditional, but they certainly hit the mark. I find myself using this same technique with my own kids. And while I haven’t had to upend a trashcan on anyone yet, I can see the potential. Who knows what stories they will tell on me one day. I smile just thinking about it.
As I young man I once said to my dad who, as was his way, spent time in the car spinning the dial to hear friends and to stay current on his industry, “Ugh. I hate commercials.” He laughed and said, “Yeah? Those commercials put food on your table.” The irony that I would choose advertising as my career was never lost on me.
And in case you’re wondering – no, I didn’t. I grew up a lot in the hallway that night. I’m pretty sure that’s the day my brain officially came online.
Great story, Bill. And I completely understand why you couldn’t get off the phone. A boy’s gotta have his priorities.
LOL…I bet you never forgot to put the trash out again! We older guys had fathers who taught us how to be men and most of us taught our sons the same way. But I look at some of these kids today in their 20’s and have to wonder where was their father when they were growing up? Lazy, no ambition, no manners, just boys who are supposed to be adults.
LMOAO…Sounds like you had a father like mine! I grew up on a farming/ranching place instead of a dairy but we always had a couple of milk cows. Dad was pretty strict and we always knew there would be trouble if we disobeyed him. One time, after I got old enough to go to the local country dances and chase the girls, I was heading out the door when he told me to be home by midnight, we had work to do in the morning.
If I got home on time he usually let me sleep in the next day and didn’t push me too hard. That particular night I got home about ten minutes after curfew and the shit hit the fan, literally. Dad rousted me out of bed at 4 am and after the normal chores were done, feeding, milking, checking on the livestock (I’m sure you know the drill) the real work began. I cleaned out horse stalls. I cleaned out hog pens. I cleaned out the chicken house. Cleaned out the milk shed. I shoveled a lot of shit that day and never forgot it. And I was never late getting home from a dance again I don’t care how good looking the girl I was chasing was!