For as long as I can remember, each and every Saturday, my Dad would take my brother Rudy and me for a ride in the car. It was an old wood panel station wagon, its two-tone look caused by the rust patches that were eating away at its once-green fenders. A bad exhaust leak made the beater roar, though the noise was nothing compared to the nausea we suffered from the fumes that seeped in. The rear of the wagon was usually packed with junk, trash bags filled with empty returnable beer cans. I guess you could say our Dad was a "collector" of sorts.

Rudy and I usually wore a day's worth of sweat and mud, our necks circled with rings of dirt. Though we experienced little sun, our faces always looked tanned. It was definitely the mix of sweat and dirt. And we loved being with Dad. Even though it meant that we'd miss out on the thrills of an open fire hydrant, or a neighborhood snowball fight, we loved spending time with him.

Dad slicked his hair back, DA style. A pack of non-filtered Pall Malls were always rolled up in the sleeve of his yellowed t-shirt, while a tattoo with two love birds carrying a banner that read MOM, bulged from his forearm. For a man who grew up in the city, he loved country music and played his 8-tracks over and over until Rudy and I knew every twang of Ernest Tubb and Charlie Rich. The car was always filled with smoke, both cigarette and exhaust, though we never dared complain. Dad was tough. If you had your wits about you, you minded him! He said it was respect. I later discovered it was actually called fear, a condition which can appear very similar and have the same effect on young boys. In any event, if Dad gave you the look to quiet down, you either piped down or faced the black belt. From the look of his gritted teeth, I often wondered whether he preferred that we chose the latter.

Sammy was a big, dumb, black-haired mutt with a tongue that wagged like a mud flap in a rainstorm. He always smelled musty and loved licking the rear windows in the car until they became two massive smudges. Dad liked having that mutt around. As a result, most of Sammy's pathetic life was spent in the backseat of the station wagon.

Whether sweltering heat, or frozen snow, each Saturday afternoon we'd pull into the dirt parking lot of "the club." Dad would shut off the engine, pull the keys from the ignition and warn us, "Be good and don't move! I'll be out in a minute."

Week after week, we'd nod and sit there quietly, taking in what little surroundings were available. The cars in the lot never changed. When a new license plate showed up, it was a real treat. Rudy and I would spend hours imagining who owned the unfamiliar car and what their life was like.

After four hours or so had elapsed, Dad would stumble out of "the club" with two bags of potato chips and throw them to us. "I just need to finish up," he'd slur. "I'll be right back!" With an eerie grin, he'd turn and stagger back toward "the club" where he'd disappear behind its red door.

That damned door: Every magical time it opened, the hoots and hollers of people having fun spilled out. Rudy and I would hang out the car window to listen. There was music and laughter and the crack of pool balls, and then the red door would close and the world would turn silent again. We hated when the door closed.

Cramped in the car for hours, the games Rudy and I played were ingenious. Most lasted until Sammy's tongue went dry and whimpered his sorrow. Sometimes Rudy and I would nap. Other times we'd sing and wish Dad had left the keys so we could play the radio. Most of the time, though, we'd just try to ignore the rumbling in our bellies. When we first started on our Saturday trips, a bag of chips almost seemed enough. As we got older, though, it would have been better had we been given nothing. Even the occasional Slim Jim or pickled egg that Dad delivered with pride only served as a cruel tease.

It took an eternity, but the payoff always happened with Dad staggering out of "the club," and driving us home (with one eye open). "Tell your Mom we went fishin' alright?" Rudy always shook his head, petrified. I said nothing.

On a good Saturday, Dad was removed from "the club" with a man under each arm. Sometimes they'd place him behind the wheel, shake their heads and return back behind the red door where all the fun awaited. Other times, as he snored, one of them would drive us home and leave us on the doorstep. No matter how it happened, Saturday night was fight night at my house. With the booze as her tag team partner, my mother won most of the brutal bouts.

As the weeks turned into months, at the risk of some vicious beatings, Rudy and I grew braver. We'd step out of the car and stretch our legs. Later, we'd start playing outside the car, careful to stay close. Eventually, we began running around the parking lot. We'd get real daring until Dad would appear from behind the red door and catch us. As he swung the belt into our bare flesh, he'd scream, "I never ask you boys for anything! And when I do, you can't even sit still for a few minutes." We'd wail and cry, and when the sniffles subsided and Dad finished his smoke, he'd wheeze, "Now stay in the car. There's a lot of nuts out in the world and your mother would have my neck if I let anything happen to you." With those words of wisdom, he returned to his work behind the blood-red door.

As the years passed, I would have done anything to get behind that friggin' door. I honestly would have given anything to get in on the yelling and the laughter and the pool games. Tragically, this one simple desire became my life's greatest goal. It was bigger than anything I'd ever (or since) dreamed for.

After Rudy's and my memories kindly dismissed the beatings, our courage always returned. This only lasted until we got caught out of the car and were made to face the black belt again. As the years passed, though, I grew so bold that I started to peek through the windows of "the club." Still, it took me until I was fifteen years old (three years after Sammy died right in the car in "the club's" parking lot) before I finally got myself behind that taunting door.

I'll never forget the night Dad came out, spotted Rudy and me standing on the side of the building and began to remove his belt. Rudy made a beeline to the car. For once, I never flinched. Dad paused and looked me right in the eye. He must have seen no fear. There was none. He'd beaten the terror out of me years before.

He laughed, threw his sweaty arm around me and started toward the red door. Looking over his shoulder, he yelled back at Rudy, "Be good. We'll be out in a minute."

But it wasn't a minute. We didn't come out for years. Though I was happy Rudy never stepped into the crimson trap, Dad and I didn't come out until we'd systematically alienated all of our family and friends; until we'd completely destroyed everything that had been good and decent in our lives.

When I look back now, I realize that the incredible will to get myself behind that red door was the greatest gift my Dad had ever given me. He was a real selfish bastard.
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