The Van

Wholly unexpected circumstances had made it such that I found myself sitting quietly on the sunny front steps of the Volusia County Courthouse in DeLand, Florida, in March 1983. The warm breeze and my pleasant solitude were interrupted by the appearance of a customized GMC Vandura Custom Van, or maybe its Chevrolet counterpart, that glided to a halt on the street at the base of the steps. It had a groovy red period custom paint job, tinted side porthole bubble windows, and an aerodynamic boomerang-like TV antenna perched atop. It was installed there to catch television signals and to signal to others that this van was outfitted to a level that it sported a television. No expense was spared. Red shag carpet attempted to burst from the doors, like pubic hair from a bikini bottom. The analogy still being a known phenomenon in this bygone era of custom vans, rotary phones, and hairy genitalia. It was clearly intended to be a chick magnet and it cast a wide web.

The man who owned the gleaming van, of age and resemblance to Archie Bunker, emerged dressed in flashy disco clothing. A slave to fashion, he wore white dress shoes with prominent gold buckles, a matching belt, plaid pants, and a loud floral shirt made of some form of glossy synthetic fabric that has since been banned by international treaty and the fashion police. An outfit wholly unburdened by natural fibers. He was a few years late for the party, but he would attend, “by Jiminy!” He, whom I’ll henceforth refer to as Disco Grandpa, came to the passenger side door and, chivalrously with some small flourish, opened it for the woman seated in the passenger seat, presumably his wife.

The woman, tenaciously clutching the purse on her lap to her abdomen, had not affected new modern “young people” clothing, in stark contrast to her husband, and had the appearance of a parody of everyman’s grandma. She wore a floral print cotton dress that seemed to belong to a bygone era, as if outfitted by a budding high school play costume designer for a production of “Our Town.” This being the ’80s, the cotton in her dress was not yet sustainably sourced and ethically harvested. It was, however, no longer slave-harvested, so it can’t be said the South had made no progress by the time of my arrival for my brief visit. I was wary of the trip and didn’t expect too much from the South; for me, the film “Deliverance” still seemed like a plausible and cautionary tale that informed my behavior. The tableau that unfolded was, however, fully unexpected.

Everyman’s grandma, refused to leave the passenger seat or exit the van, fearing what might happen if she stepped outside. “I’m not getting out. You’re going to leave me here!” Disco Grandpa tried to quietly reason with her, saying things like, “You’re being crazy,” and “We just need to go sign some papers.” She insisted he was obviously planning to leave her there, while he insisted that he would never consider doing such a thing.

Yet, she remained resolute, not making eye contact, she repeated earnestly to her feet like she was relating a written and memorized speech that she was not getting out. Defeated at last, his plumpness rode upon his white shoes and stumpy legs back to his driver’s seat, stylishly piloting the two of them off in his van to regions unknown.

Then, some period of time later, I looked up at the motion in my peripheral vision to see the now familiar van reappear. It slowly stalked its way silently down the street and glided gently to the same position by the curb it had occupied before. The scene reformed and proceeded where it left off before the intermission, with renewed intensity. I was impressed by his patience and sincerity, and eventually, so was somebody’s grandma. Perhaps there really were important papers to be signed by the couple, even if they were probably, as I began to suspect, divorce papers.

Finally persuaded, or perhaps just worn down, she tentatively exited the van as if stepping foot for all mankind on a distant planet. I began to think that perhaps with his patience and gentle persuasion, he had helped her take a first step away from some crippling agoraphobia, which she appeared to be suffering from.

Then, with a sudden burst of energy, Disco Grandpa locked, then slammed, the passenger door closed, abruptly abandoning his charade and his wife, exactly as she had suspected. He skittered around the rear of the van, hopping on one foot through the corner in a Keystone Cop-like manner, reminiscent of a character portrayed by Charles Durning, but not actually Charles Durning himself. The van sped off with at least some tire screech, but not full-on Duke’s of Hazard fishtailing. Presumably free from his long bondage and off to the companionship of his new girlfriend, or at least with the dreams he could locate such a creature. Clad in his late-in-life, but not too late for him, evacuation suit, with no sign of guilt, regret, or hesitation he was armed with his formidable array of state-of-the-art tart attractants, in the form of mod clothing and a van announcing his status and attitude. With his goal at last achieved, praise the Lord, he was free at last.

Meanwhile, his old ball & chain found herself abandoned on the sidewalk outside the courthouse, left to face the world alone. Although I’ve called her, “somebody’s grandma,” they could easily have been childless. He appears to have no one to dump her on, and she appears to have no one to turn to, at least outside the penitentiary. She assessed her situation, thoroughly overcome with grief. She looked around tearfully, assessing her options, and eventually proceeded up the courthouse steps toward people who would have no idea how or likely lacking any inclination to help her.

The situation was surreal and difficult to process, like a little staged mini-play scene for a tourist in a Southern-themed restaurant. I watched it like a nature show host, free to observe, but professional ethics required that I not intervene. She did not seem to notice me sitting quietly and still just feet from her as if I might have been invisible. Not that I had anything to offer that could blunt the situation for her, certainly less than anyone in the courthouse might. Today, I might have approached her and offered some sort of attempt at emotional support, but it would likely have not helped, or more likely just humiliated her further. In hindsight, remaining unnoticed on the sidelines was probably kinder.

I was apparently the sole witness to this event. Given my position as a mere observer and my lack of actual information, the event was shrouded in mystery, sparking unavoidable speculation. Without knowledge of their past or insights into their private lives, I found myself imagining the story that led to this moment, piecing together a narrative from the fragments I observed. I imagined the lives they must have shared together, and how it was now ending like this. I wondered if he could really get away with this plan of his, whatever the details of it. I imagined her wondering, ‘How could that handsome young man she met in his sharp sailor’s uniform, with the winning smile and twinkle in his eye in the summer of ’42, do this to her after all those years?’ As for him, I imagined “Why had he tied himself down so soon before he knew how wide the world was? Too late he learned of all those pretty women in all those ports… And all so reasonably priced!“ He clearly felt it was not too late for him to rectify this situation. He was a man of action, and I could guess that, in his mind, he had somehow ended his responsibility humanely, and she would be the responsibility of the beneficent state from now on.

Perhaps it was I that was being studied, unaware of the hidden cameras that documented my reactions and micro facial expressions with sequestered graduate students scribbling in their notebooks my reactions, or lack of, to the carefully crafted study that they had already run on many previous unsuspecting subjects. “Specimen 34 displays a profound lack of empathy. A pathetic and apathetic attitude pervades…”

It hadn’t dawned on me at the time, but when I look back at it. Their interaction unfolded like a microcosm of a society fraying at the edges. The woman’s paralyzing fear mirrored the uncertainty faced by many during that era, while Disco Grandpa’s actions reflected the prevalent individualism and disregard for collective responsibility that pervaded the Reagan-era. Social support programs were being viciously and enthusiastically dismantled with an earnest sense of self-righteousness and conviction. These were the good old days of abandoning all responsibility for selfish interests. Why should he not too throw off his shackles and chains to chase his dreams?

How did it end?

Did the county government staffers rush to her aid with comfort, sweet tea, and a shawl? Did the incensed sheriff chase down the van in a stereotypical Southern high-speed chase? With it eventually culminating in Disco Grandpa being shot dead on the side of the road like a dog that needed killing?

Or, did Disco Grandpa ride triumphantly off into the sunset with his new floozy at his side?

Perhaps she was an emotional vampire and soul-sucking parasite who proceeded to wheedle her way into her next victim.

Perhaps he died alone in his trailer over microwave Salisbury Steak on a snack tray, the van frustratedly abandoned in the yard deep in unkempt grass, its doors agape, and its red carpet matted and mildewed, a just punishment meted out for it having failed to attract the young tart it was conceived and constructed to ensnare.

Did the students who crafted this study lose all hope in humanity, give up their dreams of the Peace Corps, switch their majors to finance, and pursue a career in mergers and acquisitions?

Your guess is as good as mine.