In my early teens, if my dad said, “Mark, get your coat on; we need to change the oil in the car,” I was as happy as if he’d said he would buy me a puppy. I’d be standing at the front door, zipped up and ready to go in less than a millisecond. Before leaving, he’d ask, “Did you say goodbye to your mother?” I’d quickly peck her cheek like a relay runner handing off a baton. To this day, I never leave without saying goodbye to my wife.
My dad and I got along very well. Our relationship always boiled over with love. It saddens me that I did not feel that close to my mother. That he’s been gone over 35 years now seems beyond ridiculous. I can only imagine the fun we might have had if he’d lived longer. I am grateful for our time together, yet I still feel my mother and I were both robbed. At his funeral, I remember touching the top of his coffin and whispering goodbye. Few things are more challenging than saying goodbye to people you love.
For oil changes, we always went to a neighborhood gas station. Many of the men who worked there were “lifers,” holding onto their jobs until the combination of smoking and diesel fumes eventually killed them.
Gas stations were the first places I ever saw nude pictures of women — big, glossy, two-page Playboy centerfolds. Amazingly, I did not go blind from staring binocularly at this gas station décor.
Back then, cash was king. Before taking your money, the mechanic (never a woman) would wipe his black, oil-stained hands on a dirty rag hanging from his back pocket. There was no Jiffy Lube or Valvoline then. There were only local places with straightforward names like “Ed’s” or “Mike’s Service Station.”
At Valvoline and Jiffy Lube, they ask you to wait in a sterile, white-walled room with half a dozen chairs and a stained Mr. Coffee pot that looks like it hasn’t been washed in three years. For some reason, these places don’t like you watching while they work on your car as if they were performing life-saving surgery.
But if you’re anything like me, you enjoy watching them lift your car on the hydraulic, drain the filthy, black stuff, and then pour in the clean, clear liquid gold. Cars are like people — if you take good care of them, there’s a good chance they’ll reciprocate.
If you’re anything like me, you enjoy watching them lift your car on the hydraulic, drain the filthy, black stuff, and then pour in the clean, clear liquid gold.
Afterward, Dad and I would go to our special pancake place where they had boysenberry pancake syrup. We both loved boysenberry syrup. Dad said, “Only people in California can get fresh boysenberries. If you ever get out there, send me some.”
I always remembered what he said. Like the Gold Rush, you had to head west if you wanted fresh boysenberries. So, I packed up, and in 1984, I moved to California for a comedy career and fresh boysenberries. I found out boysenberries are extremely hard to grow, and even in California, they’re almost impossible to find. Nowadays, you’re looking at about $22 for a 6-ounce box.
After two years in California, I bought a 1971 Mustang convertible with a 351 Cleveland engine — a fast, gorgeous car. I remember picking up my parents at LAX when they flew out for a four-day visit. Being New Yorkers, they had probably never been in a convertible. I took them to Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, Venice Beach, and all the usual places. My mother asked, “What happens when it rains and the top is down?” I said, “It doesn’t rain in California.”
We passed a farmer’s market on their third day and stopped for coffee. By luck, we found a stand selling fresh boysenberries.
“Hey, Dad, look! Boysenberries.”
“I told you they were out here,” he said.
But when he saw the price, he was ready to pass on his dream of ever trying them. I bought the box for him and asked the vendor to rinse them off. We found a small table in the sun and prepared to taste our first-ever fresh boysenberries. “Dad, you go first.” After eating three or four of them, I asked him, “So?”
He said, “I like the syrup better.” To be honest, so did I.
Mark Schiff is a comedian, actor and writer, and hosts, along with Danny Lobell, the “We Think It’s Funny” podcast. His new book is “Why Not? Lessons on Comedy, Courage and Chutzpah.”
