Yippee ki-yay!
Sitting behind the wheel of a two-tone 1975 Chevrolet Silverado pickup truck, this mild-mannered eighth grader shouted out the triumphant catchphrase while idling in the parking lot of J&T Drive-In ice cream stand — a family-owned business since 1949 — situated along Mercer Road, on the outskirts of Ellwood City, Pennsylvania.
Let me guess — you think I’ve lost my marbles?
A 13-year-old driving an automobile — ridiculous, right?
Well, believe it or not, I even had a learner’s permit tucked snugly inside my bifold wallet to prove it.
Okay, so maybe it didn’t exactly have my name printed on it, but technicalities aside, it was enough to back up my boldness — or so I thought.
Now mind you, the probationary driver’s license actually belonged to my surrogate brother, Dirk Arkwright, a magnanimous soul with a knack for turning ordinary moments into extraordinary ones.
He graciously allowed me to commandeer his trusty horseless carriage for a triumphant spin across the asphalt stage of the local ice cream parlor — a popular gathering spot where teenagers swapped stories, laughter and occasionally braved the icy pangs of a brain freeze.
And here, you thought I was telling a tall tale.
That just goes to show you there’s more to me than meets the eye.
I felt like a kid in a candy store as I punched the gas pedal — thankfully, the gear shift was in park; otherwise, we might’ve inadvertently gave the seasonal establishment its very first drive-thru, straight through the front windows.
Then I’d be in a lot of hot water, not to mention having two very angry individuals — the business owner and my self-appointed guardian angel — ready to string me up by my toenails on the backyard clothesline and beat me with a stick like a piñata.
After spending three mind-numbing weeks stuck in my bedroom with a plaster cast stretching from my hip to my ankle, I finally shed that thing like a snake wriggling out of its old, constricting skin.
Between sessions of staring at the ceiling and sighing dramatically, I had my school books to “keep me company” — though that might’ve been a bit of an exaggeration.
My tutor came by three times a week — Monday, Wednesday, and Friday — to give me new assignments, collect the ones I’d finished, and explain anything I didn’t understand.
By the time Miss Kovac left each day, it felt like I’d been caught in a whirlwind of knowledge, leaving my head spinning like a carousel caught in a tornado.
It may not sound like much, but I was about ready to toss those school books into our backyard burn barrel next to the two-car garage and set them ablaze like a wild-eyed pyromaniac.
Friday nights were one of the only bright spots in this mundane routine, when my boon companions — Robert G. “Robbie” Brough, Jr. and Robert “Magsy” Magnifico — came for sleepovers on the pullout sofa in the underbelly of the church parsonage.
The scent of buttery popcorn filled the air, mingling with muffled laughter echoing through the house as we exchanged jokes and shared stories late into the night.
They were my lifeline to normalcy and laughter in an otherwise dull world.
The only challenge they faced? The ceremonial emptying of my bedside urinal, since navigating the stairs was still a Herculean task for me, especially when I was still chained to the turtle-like shell.
Robbie, ever the trooper, would carefully tip-toe across the cold cement floor like a stealth cat burglar and dump it out the basement entrance, much to everyone’s hilarity.
That itchy cast finally came off on Friday, March 21, 1980, marking the start of a grueling week of relearning how to use my leg. Bending it felt like a monumental challenge, and walking up and down stairs? That was my Everest — no small feat in a school with three floors.
By Sunday, March 23, I was still stumbling through my self-imposed physical therapy, determined to conquer the staircase before my triumphant return to school on Monday, March 31st.
From the bedroom window, I spotted the Riverside High School track star step from the side entrance to the colossal red-brick building with stained glass windows next door and asked him to come up to my sleeping quarters.
Dirk strode into my room with his trademark grin, that familiar twinkle in his eye, and a level of confidence only he could pull off in his Sunday best. He leaned against the door frame, hands in his pockets, and gave me a once-over before cutting straight to the point.
“Alright, champ,” he said, his tone equal parts teasing and encouraging. “You can’t sit up here wallowing forever. I mean, come on, you’re tougher than that cast you had on for three weeks, aren’t you?”
I rolled my eyes, but he wasn’t deterred.
“Here’s the deal,” he continued, stepping into the room and dropping his voice as if he were classified information. “You’ve got one week to conquer those stairs, and if you do, we’re going for ice cream; and I have a little surprise that I think you’re going to like.”
“Since you’ve been pestering me about my learner’s permit for weeks, it’s finally yours now that I’ve been upgraded to a full-fledged driver’s license,” he added handing it to me as if it were a gold nugget, which had me leaping from the bed and into his arms.
“Take it easy tiger, because I wouldn’t want you to break anything.”
Sitting in the parking lot of J&T’s ice cream stand, the sun casting its warm glow over the truck’s hood, I carefully pulled my newly acquired learner’s permit from its snug spot in the bifold wallet, holding it like it was a winning lottery ticket as Dirk leaned back in his seat with his arms crossed, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
“Well,” he said, motioning to the steering wheel, “what are you waiting for, champ? Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Before I could say a word, Dirk chuckled and reached over to wipe a dab of chocolate ice cream off my nose.
My heart raced as I gripped the steering wheel once more, the engine humming beneath my hands and the scent of vanilla custard lingering in the air.
It was a moment of exhilaration and freedom, one that I would hold onto forever — not just for the permit or the ice cream, but for the unwavering belief Dirk, my very own superhero, had in me.