The Boy with Stripes

A few days later, I was playing in the driveway when Mom pulled up in her ‘57 Chevy Bel-Air—the one with tail fins with chrome tips on them. As she pulled in, one of the tips fell to the ground with a clang. I just stood there. She got out of her car and screamed, “What was that??!!”

I pointed and said, “It fell off as you pulled in the driveway.”

She looked at it there on the ground and said, “What have you done to my car? Pick it up and put it back, right now!!”

So I picked it up and tried to put it back on the car, but it didn’t stay. Much to my dismay, it fell to the ground again with a resounding clang. As it hit the ground, my heart just stopped, and I knew I was about to breathe my last breath. She loved this car way, way more than she even liked me. I was a goner for sure.

She stomped her foot and asked me what I had done to her car. I tried to explain that I had done nothing but stand there and watched her pull into the driveway when the piece just fell off. She told me I had two choices: If I continued to say that I had done nothing to her car, she would beat me for fifteen minutes with the razor strop; but, if I admitted that I had 43