While at dinner with my parents this weekend, my mother talked about a story involving my dad that made me realize I was clearly not born in a test tube. All that random shit that always happens to me? Turns out it happens and happened to my dad, too.

Here is an excellent example:

When I was a year old, my parents lived in Braintree, Massachusetts, renting one half of a duplex that my grandparents owned. My dad worked nights in Boston and made the 30-minute drive every night.

One night, driving his old, beat-up Volkswagen Beetle, probably listening to an eight-track, he zipped along speedily. Since he was an aggressive driver and was passing everyone, he failed to noticed the horrified looks and just shrugged off the horns as coming from people who didn't know how to drive.

Coming around a bend, he saw that traffic was backing up, so he slowed down. This allowed the car next to him to get close enough to start honking furiously. My dad looks over and sees the driver, an old Polish man, waving his arms and yelling through the closed window.

Even though it was the middle of winter, snowing, and freezing, my dad rolled his window down.

"Yr cah isk on —-!" the guy shouted.

"What?" My dad slowed down a bit more so that he could hear over the wind.

"Yr cah iskonfayah!" the guy tried again, but my dad still couldn't hear him. So he slowed down even more.

"What?"

"YOUR CAR IS ON FIRE! (actually, with the accent, probably sounded like "Urr cah isk ong fiyah!")" The guy gesticulated in the general direction of the rear of the car.

"Shit!" My dad started to stop and pull over. As soon as he slowed down more, though, the oxygen-starved flames leaped forward, scorching the backseat and singeing the back of his head.

"Shit shit!" So, he did the only thing he knew to do. He accelerated. And, sure enough, the fire receded to just the back. Now that he was aware of it, he angled the mirrors so he could watch it.

As you probably know, old Beetles had the engine in the rear of the car, so my dad knew that it was likely his oil pan or radiator, not his gas tank. But if he slowed down too much, it might actually reach the gas tank.

He started to approach stopped and slow-moving traffic but he was afraid to slow down, so he just sped up more and continued through traffic like a madman. Behind him, since his window was still open, he heard honks and shouts.

"Yeah, I fucking know!" He waved back as he maneuvered through the traffic like a stunt driver.

Being relatively practical, my dad knew that he couldn't do this forever. He started to grab his weather gear and put it on. First the mittens, then the scarf and hat. He zipped up his jacket as he zipped around slow-moving cars and trucks. The snow started to fall even thicker.

Finally, he reached a stretch where he could be in the far right lane. He slowed as much as he dared, grabbed his briefcase, and dove out of the car.

By the time he stopped rolling and gathered his bearings, the car had drifted to a stop about 30 yards away. It was completely consumed by flames, and it wasn't long until he heard a "WHOOOMP" sound and the Beetle exploded.

Couldn't you see that same exact thing happening to me? I know I could.

Side note: Do you know what Twitter is? Are you following me on it? If not, you're missing out!

43 Responses to “It's genetic”