A 1951 Studebaker Commander 

by David Salner

Their son Gerald, now almost ten, had grown up watching his father wash the family car with a garden hose and apply a coat of wax to the dark green paint. This Studebaker model had a futuristic bullet nose grill and a sporty look, low to the ground, with almost no backseat area. One day in 1956, when the car was five years old, Eugene had backed it out of the garage to make space for what he’d told his son would be “a lesson, man to man.” 

Gerald got “Above Average” in school, seldom “Excellent.” His parents were careful never to criticize his grades, which were below expectations. He was a good boy and they loved him very much. But it was apparent that he’d encountered other troubles in addition to his less than excellent grades. Eugene had coaxed out of him that Robert Webster, a notorious bully, had targeted his son for beatings. At that age, a beating wasn’t necessarily the physically disabling occurrence that it might be when older, stronger boys were involved, but it was bad enough. Gerald was now afraid when he ventured out on the P.S. 87 playground. 

Eugene closed the sliding door. Dust mixed with the smell of oil stains as the two stood together in the middle of the garage. An overhead bulb cast an uneven light on their faces. Eugene shuffled away from his son, holding his fists like rocks in front of his face. He looked ferocious. “Keep your head down,” he told his son, dancing over the grease marks, skipping lightly, then striking at the air with sudden vengeance. 

Eugene knew what he was talking about. He’d survived childhood and youth in a rough-and-tumble environment. One of his memories had been of a summer job, many years earlier, when he was fifteen and small for his age. He’d been hired to work in a ramshackle foundry in one of those tough Hungarian neighborhoods near Akron. It was his first day at work. Of course he was nervous, but he knew enough to hide it. Or try to. They’d shown him how to pour hot iron into molds. He was a quick learner. No one told him to, but he stood back from the caldron in case the molten metal overflowed, also so the radiant heat wouldn’t blister his skin. He’d done ok—he knew that without being told. 

Dying of thirst, he’d hurried to the break room as soon as the whistle sounded. He fell in near the front of the line for a turn at the drinking faucet. Men cupped hands, scarfed water, and rinsed their faces, all very quickly out of respect for those behind them. Eugene was next up, but before he could advance to the fountain, a big hand descended on the back of his neck, thumb and forefinger digging in like pincers. He whirled around only to see a giant of a man grinning down. Suddenly his feet were kicked out from under him and he was slammed to the floor, hip and shoulder taking the brunt. He hadn’t seen or felt a thing except the powerful hand, the kick to his feet, and the shock of the concrete. 

Then the big man waved several of his buddies toward the drinking faucet. “We drink first. This little lad didn’t understand the rules. It looks like he’s pretty agreeable now.”

A few of the other men laughed uneasily. Then the giant took his turn at the sink, gargled a mouthful of water, and bent his head down for more. Eugene had picked himself up and retreated from the humiliation. He leaned there, one hand splayed against the wall, and took a deep breath to recover from his hurts. At the edge of his vision was the long handle of a coal scoop balanced against the wall. He seized the tool, which was almost as tall as he was, and an idea formed in his mind. He took a few steps as if taking the shovel back to work, then wheeled toward the sink where the giant had just lowered his head for another greedy swig. He brought the heavy square end of the scoop down on the man’s head, putting everything he had into it, everything he had in his skinny body, driving the man’s face into the faucet. He brought it down again on the man, who fell to the floor, blood streaming from his nose. Then the slender boy stepped to the faucet, cupped his hands, and drank his fill.

Eugene’s son would never have to practice such rough arts, would not have to assert himself against lowlifes like that. But in the lives of boys and men, some knowledge of self-defense is always of value.

“Don’t wrestle with a bully—and no name calling, no preliminaries. If you can’t find something to defend yourself with, sock him hard—never pull your punches. Aim for his nose. The nose has so many nerve endings a brave man will cry when he’s hit there, and bullies aren’t brave. Don’t fight fair. If someone wants to fight fair you don’t have to fight him.”

The boy knew this lesson was secret knowledge even before the hand patted his head and the warning given not to divulge a word to his mother. This was a thrilling thing for Gerald. Father and son were sharing a secret his mother might never know. 

Then Eugene got into the Studebaker and watched his son head back into the house. He hoped Gerald would be able to put this lesson into practice. But how much can a child of that age grasp? He watched him, his pudgy little son, as he climbed the stairs to the porch and turned back, beaming at his father. Then Eugene put the Studebaker in gear and let it creep forward into the garage.

On the P.S. 87 playground, after school the next day, the Webster boy came through the gate in the chain-link fence and spotted Gerald. As before, he advanced and spread his arms wide for a bearhug. It was a terrifying hold because of the feeling that your very breath, your life, was being squeezed out. Panic filled Gerald. He knew all about the bearhug and wanted to run as fast as he could away from the looming bully. His father had given him a good plan, but it was only a plan, and maybe flight was a better one. He looked down at the hard, gray macadam and froze for a moment as the heavy steps came nearer. He glanced up, and the bully was on top of him, close enough for the bearhug, so escape was no longer possible. Whether or not he really believed in it, he had no choice but to try what his father had taught him. He lunged forward, thrusting his fist out in his best imitation of a punch. His eyes had been partly shut from fear, so the blow landed in the right eye instead of on the nose and it wasn’t even that hard. But the effect was profound. The Webster boy let out a scream, held his eye, and retreated back to the fence, turning indignantly toward Gerald. 

“You didn’t warn me you’d be punching!” A violation had occurred. Of the rules bullies thought their victims should live by. And it was an unfair blow, Gerald thought, a smile crossing his face.

* * *

As his father had instructed, he’d never discussed this episode with his mother. But long after the 1951 Studebaker had been replaced by one Ford and then another, after Eugene’s death, long after Gerald had moved away and on the occasion of a return visit, during a lull in their conversation when he didn’t have much left to say, he told his mother the story of his father’s brilliant lesson and of the day he’d stood up to the Webster boy. 

She turned and fixed him in a look that took him back to childhood, when she’d often grilled him until he was forced to make some confession or other. He grinned back a little sheepishly, but what else did he need to confess? Only the travels that took him to distant places and led to infrequent visits; the career path, which was a waste of so much good childhood training; the fact that he wasn’t always there for his mother, an old lady about to step into the final chapter of her life.  

She weighed the story and raised her shoulders in a shrug that said she was not the least bit surprised by the story and maybe not that interested. She was still waiting for something else he could tell her, something she needed to hear.

About the author

David Salner’s debut novel, A Place to Hide, won first place for 1900s historical fiction from Next Generation Indie Book Awards. Of Summer Words: New and Selected Poems (Broadstone Books, 2023), poet and critic William Heath said: “David Salner is the Poet Laureate of working people.” He’s worked as iron ore miner, steelworker, librarian, baseball usher. His writing also appears in Threepenny Review, Ploughshares, North American Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, and in previous issues of Sundial. Visit his website at www.DSalner.wix.com/salner. 

About the illustration

The illustration is an advertisement for a Studebaker Commander 2-door sedan, 1950. In the public domain.