Story 61: Turnip's Exotic Family, Part I

Turnip’s Exotic Family, Part I

Turnip's eyes filled with water and he felt alive. He yanked another nose hair and shook his head like a dog shedding sleep. Those little hairs were his alarm clocks. Mid shift always meant he needed to uproot a couple in order to get by.

"The nightshift drags and you need all the help you can get staying awake," he mumbled, framing the sentence with a shrug. Turnip had begun talking to the cars about two months ago. The conversations rarely strayed from the observational, but on occasion, if Turnip was feeling frisky, the talks spilled out in all directions. He wasn't willing to admit it, but a yellow convertible once bested him in an argument regarding U.S. foreign policy. It wasn't so much that the car was persuasive or well-informed. The truth was the Ferrari never uttered a word, Turnip just dug himself a hole from the get go. It was a relief when the car was bought and shipped to Brooklyn Heights.

Turnip squeezes himself into the passenger seats when he has a secret to reveal or something personal on his mind. It is not a pretty sight and it never fails to remind him these cars were not built with him in mind. High performance was a concept Turnip had missed completely. If security guards were assigned according to resemblance, Turnip would be pulling the graveyard at a jalopy factory in the Bronx.

Luckily security agencies have little regard for aesthetics. So, as it stood, there sat Turnip, ushering out the last few minutes of News Years day in a Ferrari showroom nestled deep in the heart of Hoboken. The space was all muted color, crisp lines and no sound. Three cars: red, white and lime green sat idle, trying their best to avoid conversation. Turnip was sitting on a plush leather couch, watching a basketball game he had money on. His arm dangled from the side, his ratty nightstick an extension of his middling authority, spinning like a weather vane on a blustery day. The television's sound was off and the set lit up the showroom in oranges and blues. Turnip's face was aglow.

He pulled another alarm clock, admiring the twisted, black hair he held between thumb and forefinger. His mind drifted. Flicking his hand, he tried to wrestle the hair free from his finger, but it held on tight. After some time Turnip found himself rooting for it. But a wild shake of the hand shook it and it landed in front of the television with very little ceremony.

He had more than he could afford on the over. Scoring up until halftime had been anemic. Layups rimmed out. Jumpers struck the backboard like lead balloons. There was a three minute stretch where Turnip counted fourteen turnovers. It was as if the Washington Generals were playing themselves.

"This is no way to start the New Year."

The lime green Ferrari took no notice. It was pointed in the opposite direction.

Turnip tapped his nightstick on the tile as halftime stretched out like taffy. The analysts broke down the first half, expressing their surprise at the low scoring affair. Turnip applauded their disbelief and cursed the fact he might not make rent if the scoring stayed so low. Closed captioning paraded the announcers’ words across the bottom of the screen. The color commentator had a habit of stretching out the phrase "I cannot believe it's not butter" until it hardly resembled English. The television never got it right and instead scrolled out: I CANNOT BEE LIFE ITS NOT GUTTER. Turnip chuckled along with each word.

Turnip turned his back on the game and fired up the computer. The Ferrari lounge was state of the art. There was free internet, gourmet coffee, electric seats that barely knew the difference between massage and molest. Turnip gnawed on a day old croissant. By the time he arrives the customers and the afternoon shift have already devoured all the good stuff. But once you got past the stale armor the pastry's flaky guts were delicious.

He went straight to Wikipedia and clicked on “random article.” It was part of his routine. He would look up three random things each evening and read out loud to the exotic cars.

“Hey cars! Did you know the Hoosier Valley Railroad Museum is open Saturdays all year? Train rides are available from May to September.” Turnip spoke over his shoulder loud and clear, with a hint of honest enthusiasm. He was sure that the cars would be interested in the trains, means of transportation he viewed as the Ferrari’s hard working, blue collar relations.

“You are not going to believe this! Reseda High School has been used in such films as Grosse Point Blank as well as several episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The band, Paramore, filmed a video entitled “Misery Business” at the high school.” Turnip had assigned personalities to each car a few weeks after the conversations began.

The red 2004 Challenge Stradale was feisty and petulant. It loved the finer things in life but also had the occasional hankering for homespun biscuits and gravy. It had a love for trashy novellas so devout Turnip viewed the car as an expert in romance. In Turnip’s mind it also had an unhealthy love of all things Judd Nelson. The car was young and sure, but deep inside it held that empty sadness all great things feel when they find themselves bottled up. Turnip told jokes to the Challenge, at least the ones he could remember. Often he whispered the raunchy ones, afraid the white car might hear.

The white 1969 Dino 206 GT was a byproduct of the grassroots revolution, wise and well-traveled. It had seen some things in its day and had grown to understand the world from on high and down low. Its paint job was the only thing unoriginal about it. It had a full independent suspension and a top speed of 146. Turnip imagined the advice it could impart. That the world is as hard or soft as you let it. That sleeping with a woman crazier than yourself is an act you will always regret in the end. That life is one big experiment, but you have to log some lab time to get anything out of it. Of all the three cars Turnip spoke with Dino most often. He told it his greatest fears and silliest dreams.

The lime green 2004 612 Scaglietti was a two door coupe with room for four adults. Turnip pretended it was motherly, despite its raucous appearance. The kind of mother who grew up and yet never gave in. Its design was modeled after the 375 MM, the car Roberto Rossellini had commissioned for Ingrid Bergman. It loved old movies and gave warm, digestible advice. It had a Boston accent peppered with mispronounced French slang. Turnip brought in a copy of Blue Hawaii one night and turned the television so he could sit in the backseat of the Scaglietti and pretend they were at a drive in. The lime green was specially requested, paid for and then refused upon sight. The dealership kept the money and the prince went off to squander his unlimited fortune elsewhere. The car was an asset in name only. To the eyes it was an aberration. Turnip loved it though, as he loved each of them in his own special way.

To be continued…