The little boy had had his foot crushed: the fat kid sat on it. No, really.
When you're only 5 years old and your overweight 16 year old baby sitter lands on you during a horsin' around session, something's got to give.
Mum and Dad didn't know what was wrong with the little boy's foot. He was limping a bit, but otherwise, he terrorized the house like always. Next day the little boy's foot turned purple. Day after that, it turned more purple.
"Chuck, I think you better take him over to the hospital and get that checked out"
'Over' meant that the hospital was literally across the street. Well, actually across the street up the hill a bit.
Dad carried the little boy on his shoulders, sort of Tiny Tim style.
"Well, we've taken x-rays and it appears that his foot is broken." "We'll cast it up and he'll be fine in a few weeks."
3 or 4 pounds of plaster and a couple of rolls of gauze later, it was done.
"What is this thing on my foot?" he thought. "I don't like it."
The quiet of the hospital zone was about to be broken.
Mum could hear him screaming as Dad carried him down the hill from the hospital.
"GET THIS THING OFF OF ME!" he wailed.
"GET-THIS-THING-OFF-MY-FOOT!" he demanded.
The little boy had been through a lot that afternoon, so it was decided that maybe a treat was in order just to get his mind of the afternoon's events.
"I'm going to take Jimmy over to Richard's for dinner" Dad told Mum "We'll be back in a while."
The little boy really loved going out for a ride in the car especially if they were bound for Richard's.
When they returned, Dad was not in a good mood as he carried the little boy in from the car and deposited him on the sofa. He mumbled something about "damn kid" and went back outside with something from under the kitchen sink in his hands.
Seems the trauma at the hospital had taken an unexpected toll on the little boy.
Richard's was actually Richard's Drive-in CARfeteria. It was a car hop. Yeah, a real, honest to goodness car hop. One of those wondrous neon lit palaces that are all but gone now. The one with the happy, roly-poly little girl and little boy on the roof. A place where you could take your family or your sweetie and sit in the comfort of your own car while your food was brought out to you by a pretty young thing in a short skirt and a pillbox hat. They'd been there many times before.
It was those car hop days before kids car seats and seat belts and padded dash boards. Cars were worshipped as icons of the American dream. Enormous steel beasts with vast interiors. Wrap-around windshields. Chrome deluxe. The little boy sat dwarfed in the huge front seat of the car beside Dad.
"He'll have a burger and a root beer float, please." Dad told the girl "Some french fries, too."
It was the little boy's favorite.
When the little boy was nearly finished with his burger and french fries, it happened. The afternoon's stress coupled with the evening's excitement became just too much for him.
As always, it came like a fountain. Probably, more like a fire hose. 'Projectile vomiting' it's called. What with the force of it and with the little boy gazing out through the windshield at the lights at the time, there was little place for it to go except for where it went: up onto the dash board.
Dad had spent some time cleaning up while still at Richard's. Some more time was spent when he got home that night. And probably at lunch at work for the next few days. All that ornate chrome and steel. He even managed to scrub it out of those tweedy sort of multi-colored woven plastic seat covers.
Unfortunately though, the puke did run down inside the grill on the top of the dash board soaking the radio speaker and ruining it. It made the radio sound all mushy sort of, maybe like it was under water or something like that.
For the rest of that summer, the family appreciated Dad's thoroughness. Every now and then there was a little hint of what had happened. But only on the really hot days.
All about the incident was pretty much forgotten until that first cool autumn morning. Only then was the real damage to Dad's beloved car to be fully appreciated. The puke had apparently also run down inside of the defroster vents. No amount of those little pine trees hanging from the radio knobs was going to help.
Since defogging the windows was out of the question and driving with fogged up windows was too dangerous, Dad had to sell the car.
"Nah, it runs great, haven't had a lick of trouble with it."
"No, if you don't mind, I would really prefer the cash, please."