The Maniac’s Goofy Grape

It was pretty dark when we rolled back into Fairhope. I woke up when the car stopped in my friend’s driveway to let him out. We had school the next day, so a quick trip to see Dave Matthews in Atlanta was legit for high school kids.

In my friend’s yard was the car he had gotten for his 16th birthday —a 1986 Ford Bronco sitting on what looked like monster truck tires. It was badass, and I don’t even know shit about cars.

It had gone to get painted while we were seeing Dave. My friend had picked out this royal blue, or maybe diver blue—I can’t remember. He hadn’t stopped talking about it, though.

All of our crew were equally excited as he was, but for two reasons. Number one, this paint job was supposed to be fresh. Number two, he was the first to turn 16, which meant freedom was the name of the game.

But when we pulled up, the look on his face was nothing but sadness. I could make out the shape of the car and its enormous height, but the color… the color was off. I wiped the cold out of my eyes, and before I could say anything, a voice, weighted with despair and disappointment, broke the silence.

“It’s purple. It’s fucking purple,” my friend said.

No way I would let my dude’s hype be harshed! “Nah, man. I think it’s the light. I bet it’s just ’cause it’s fresh.” Again, I know nothing about cars.

“It’s purple,” he said as he opened the door, head now looking toward the ground. Dude was sad. “I’ll see you at school tomorrow.” And he walked away from our car and into the house.

I didn’t see my friend drive into school the next day on account of the fact that my mom was still dropping me off in the carpool line. What I wouldn’t give to just have someone driving me around again. I didn’t know how good I had it—a personal chauffeur.

I saw him in health class, and he seemed upbeat. He said it was hard to find parking (sophomores couldn’t park on campus, so he had to park at some nearby softball fields). I didn’t mention the color, as his demeanor suggested the paint must have settled and wasn’t “fresh” like when I had previously seen it.

“Come over after school,” I said. “For sure. We can just cruise,” he replied.

Around 4:30 p.m., he rolled over to my house in his Bronco. The one that was most definitely purple, but that everyone was calling Scuba Blue.

He came in and said what’s up to my mom. My friend Lunchbox was with him, too. The three of us stood in the kitchen talking… you could tell my mom was stalling, nervous. It was the first time I was riding in the car with a friend who was just 16.

We were just about to walk out when I heard the back door open. Pops was home. As he made his way toward the kitchen, you could hear him talking.

“Whose fucking car is outside?” he asked. “The fucking Goofy Grape.”

My friend’s head dropped. Lunchbox and I started cracking up.

Pops walked into the kitchen and looked around. “Maniac. Is that your ride out there, dude?”

“Yeah. But it’s Scuba bBlue,” he said, correcting the error that my dad’s eyes had made.

Pops looked at the Maniac. Then looked out at the car parked on the street. Then looked back at the Maniac. Then at the car once more.

“I don’t know what to tell you. But that fucker is purple, Zach.”

My dad gave nicknames to all of my friends. When he met Zach, the first thing he said to him was, “Zach-Zach, the Lego Maniac.” He had never met Zach. Didn’t know if he liked Legos. But that’s what he called him. And that’s what he called him for the next 20+ years.

Zach looked defeated. You could see what he was thinking: I’m driving a purple Bronco. A GIANT PURPLE BRONCO.

“I’ll tell you something, Maniac,” Pops said, with 100% honesty in his voice. “Only somebody with a set of nuts on him can drive that car and still be a big player.” He shot Zach a big smile and an energized look and followed up with, “AND THAT’S YOU, MANIAC!”

Everyone was on the lets-play-along-it’s-Scuba-Blue train except for Pops. He wasn’t trying to be a dick, he was just stating the obvious. 

“The Goofy Grape. Huh,” Zach said, before letting out a laugh. “Whatever you say, G.B.” 

Zach drove the shit out of that Bronco through high school, and we all lovingly referred to it as the Goofy Grape.

Pops had a special relationship with a lot of my friends. His second son, Notorious R.O.N., and characters like Dave, Deaven (how’s he doing? AKA Dan), Coday Mos, and T Dangle, among numerous others.

And Zach. They had an awesome relationship.

Zach took driving advice from Pops, which was a nightmare and took years off my friend Cody’s life because he really did drive like a maniac. I know this to be true because one time in New Orleans, Zach pulled into an intersection where a trolley was coming.

We were all freaking out, and he said, “They’ll stop.” This was the same thing my dad said when we were 15 and he pulled out into Atlanta traffic while we were in the backseat, freaking out.

“They’ll stop.”

Pops was an idea man. Zach is an idea man.

Dad would share his stories from his marketing and retail days—how he was the one at his company who came up with the idea to buy handmade rugs in India because of their quality and beauty, or the time he had to figure out how to sell 3,000 pairs of pink socks he ordered by accident. Zach just let him go. 

Then he’d share ideas and possibilities with Pops.

One time, I came home from college and he told me he was going to start an online store where he would sell creamers and antiques. This was coming from the same guy I gave a two-hour tutorial to over FaceTime on how to set up an Amazon Firestick.

“An online store? Quit hanging out with Zach,” I told him.

Zach loved my dad.

When I went to school in Gainesville, Florida, Zach was still in town.

I’d talk to Pops, and he would tell me that he and the Maniac went for lunch or had breakfast. When my family was out of town once, and Pops was home alone, Zach hung out with him at the house.

I’m choked up thinking about that memory. I can remember the exact text.

Zach came to hang out with me. Said he will come back again this week.

When I read “Zach” in that message, I knew just how much that gesture meant to him. Maniac was the persona Pops had created for Zach, but Zach was the person who made up that persona.

I’m not sure if that makes any sense, but chew on it and maybe it will.

When Dad died, I had to take his CPAP machine back. Just one of those things. A large black box that had pushed in air while he slept for the last 10-plus years. It was loud and had a shrieking beep that could keep you up at night if your door wasn’t closed or you weren’t used to the sound.

I’d give anything to hear it again.

I asked Zach to take me to return it.

He rolled over to the house and stepped out of his car. Through the living room window, I could see him spark up a cigarette as he pulled his hat down to cover his eyes and looked at his busted-ass shoes.

I walked out with the CPAP, and Zach didn’t look up. I made my way to the trunk of his car, and he met me there, still not looking up. I loaded the machine with his help. I got in the car, and it was a good two to three minutes before Zach got in the driver’s seat.

“Had to finish my cig,” he said, now looking forward but not at me.

Finishing a cig. What bullshit.

I’ve seen Zach light cigarettes, take a drag, and put them out. I knew why he wasn’t looking up. I don’t blame him.

The ride to the medical supply place was quiet, neither of us saying anything.. When we arrived, Zach got out of the car and lit up another cigarette. I walked into the place and returned the CPAP.

“Can I ask why you are returning this?” the person asked nicely.

“My dad died,” I replied. “I’m sorry.”

That exchange let me know exactly why Zach wasn’t talking. He knew the only thing he could say was sorry, and for Zach, that wasn’t good enough. For my Pops, he felt that wasn’t good enough.

Zach is the type of person who is there for you no matter what. Like in 2012, when my mental health really jolted me. I would be crying or panicking in front of Zach, and he’d just remain calm and silent. And when he felt the moment was right, he’d ask, “You good, bud?”

The silence is not an indicator of lack of empathy. Nothing could be further from the fucking truth.

He cares so much about the people he loves that it hurts him that he can’t do anything about it. That he’s helpless; a similar feeling to the one my Pops experienced when watching me suffer the hurdles of mental health.

So when he came to pick me up and return dad’s CPAP, I knew why he wasn’t talking or looking at me.

One of his best friends in the entire world was completely broken, and Zach couldn’t help. And the real kicker? He knew the person he’d always ask, “How’s Tripp?” was no longer on this plane of existence.

The person he ate breakfast with. The person he messed with. The person he spent over half his life forming a relationship with.

Zach lost my dad. Zach lost someone he loved.

He missed him so much he couldn’t even acknowledge what had happened—all while feeling helpless that he couldn’t do anything for me.

I’m choked up again thinking about how hard that moment was. Surrendering something so pointless, like a CPAP machine, to a complete stranger. But I remember watching Zach smoking outside, and I could hear Dad in my head.

“Maniac. When the hell are you going to quit that shit!? Dumbass. I ‘otta slap you!”

I smiled, walked outside, got in the car, and Zach drove me home.

When I miss my dad, I remember how many other people miss him — like Zach.

That Bronco, his first car, will always be linked to my dad. It will trigger memories of all the time they spent together and all the stories they created. And that makes me happy.

The Maniac will always remember that only someone with a set of nuts could drive the Goofy Grape.