Baby, You Can Drive My Car
Men and Their Cars
Here’s a repeat of an early humorous post, which I hope will alleviate some of the stress of whatever insanity is on the way today. When it was first published, I only had about 50 subscribers, so this will be new for most of you, and I updated it for return readers. It’s a good time to write about cars with the spring coming on. So let’s be optimistic and have some fun. Listen to the Beatles’s song for inspiration! It will pick you up.
Baby, you can drive my car
Yes, I'm gonna be a star
Baby, you can drive my car
And maybe I’ll love you
Let’s take a road trip down the rocky pavement of Old-Guy Memory Lane:
The City
Meanwhile back at the branch, the long-awaited return of the cardinal while two saxophones butt heads in a nearby warehouse … City, my city! I’ve spent all day raking leaves from last fall, dodging two yellow jackets that haven’t learned how to avoid people. But I have. Even in a neighborhood where prowlers pee in our back yard, or leave behind condoms and Dunkin’ Donut bags. Today, I scattered rocks at the base of our fence. At night I opened our bedroom window, waiting to hear a tibia’s sweet crack, the “shit, goddammit, shit,” from the creep who broke the driver’s side window of my 2010 Forester, stealing our Linda Ronstadt CD. Thirty years ago, when he broke into my cherry-red Malibu and stole Santana Abraxis—the same guy, I swear it—I taped razor blades to the base of my 8-track stereo, one night forgetting the genius of the idea, shredding my calf while mounting a woman I would love but not marry. Meanwhile, somewhere in the country—Simplicity: an old man in his bathroom shaking off his penis for the fifth time, his granddaughter asleep on the back porch, watching stars flame up in a minute-by-minute account of the universe. Somewhere, moose and little beasties run wild, while people sleep soundly, deliriously happy to be part of Nature’s puny plan. But I’m happy, too, gripping the handle of a pellet gun, crouched half asleep beneath my bedroom window, humming the lyrics to Ronstadt’s “Blue Bayou.”
I’m not what you’d call a “car guy.” I actually think that guys who define themselves by what they drive can be pretty silly. Granted, you may think me a condescending twit for my harsh take on “car guys.” But not to worry, because if you read on, you will see that, much to my surprise, I myself may be a variant of the very thing I am critiquing. Which would not be unusual for me. So, remember: sometimes a road trip that at first seems undesired can end up being satisfying if you chance upon some beautiful scenery and a few cool hot-dog stands along the way . . .
To begin … I’ve seen men become clichés over cars, and sometimes even impoverish themselves:
The old guy with the red sports car convertible, his bald spot baked red by the sun, willing to risk a burnt brain or skin cancer to cruise on a hot August day with a much-younger bleach blonde, who, with permed locks spilling out of her floppy white straw hat, craves the kind of attention normally given to movie stars, fashion models, and, in some off-the-beaten paths of America, pole dancers. I mean, she must be important, driving in this vehicle with a cigar-smoking sophisticated older gentleman, who also wears a white straw fedora that conceals his comb-over. He’s just left his wife, whose raised four kids and is too old to work, so is forced to attend YMCA exercise classes she hates hoping she might meet a man who can carry on a conversation that doesn’t involve physical ailments. There’s a whole sad novel here, its shiny book jacket graced with a photograph of that couple in a red sports car. It could be a BMW or even a Mustang, depending on the socioeconomic status of these love birds.
Next, we come across a young guy in a black Mercedes-Benz E-Class Convertible. He’s wearing $400 Gucci Aviator sunglasses, his left arm dangling over the side of the drivers-side door, his right, grasping a red steering wheel. He stares straight ahead. He doesn’t ask if people are watching him; he knows they are watching him. And they are! They are! But what those people don’t know is that the car is really his dad’s, and that his dad has loaned it to him, hoping it will give him confidence for the interview he’s driving to—the eighth soon-to-be-unsuccessful one he’s had this month. The time has come to pay dues for that C-minus average he got from a very expensive private college in Iowa that specializes in accepting wealthy, troubled boys who got rejected everywhere else. We could reasonably title the above snapshot, “Portrait of a Young Man with Car as Prop,” the only question being who or what is the prop?
In another lane, just about to pass him, is a 28-year-old guy with a scruffy black beard and a soiled Patriots hat. His tattooed arm (the one with Tom and Giselle Forever scrawled on it) is gripping the wheel of a 2006 Mazda Miata MX-5 Convertible. I would like to tell his story—his late child-support payments and DWI arrests, for instance. I would like to explain how, to him, the Miata symbolizes a by-gone time when men were men, and women were women, and those nasty Mexicans stayed where they belonged, but, in his case, it’s not worth it. In a way, the convertible isn’t even a convertible. I mean, dude, it’s a Miata. How can a Miata be a cool car?
I might also mention the conservative accountant in his Land Rover who, while driving through his suburban neighborhood past the local playground mistakes the little children to be a pride of lions about to pounce on him from a sinister African savannah. Or the academic who … Okay, let’s stop here before you think me to be hopelessly cynical, or, even worse, nasty. .
In truth, I realize that perfectly normal men drive convertibles and derive self-esteem from their cars. During the summer, even I cruise with my blonde, straw-hat wearing wife in her 2013 black Volvo Convertible, but only toward sunset and only when she makes me. First, I can’t endure the hot sun scalding my bald spot during the day; and second, I look like a fool in a straw hat.
So, yes, I admit that one authentic way of making a statement about yourself is to let your car do the talking. Do you buy a car based on picking up girls? Or to pretend you’re rich or adventurous when you’re not? Or to save money? Or to have something that drives well off-road because you’re an outdoorsman? Or, like me, do you just take what comes along at the time and work with it—like the way most of us dated during the 60s and 70s, and maybe even now.
So let me finish with a few cars that meant something to me:
My 1959 Rambler American Yellow and Black 2-Door Sedan (the above picture of a light blue one is the best I could find): I bought this car in 1969 for $200 off the local car mechanic. This was one very cool car, though I didn’t realize it at the time. To me, it was cheap, and even someone as mechanically inept as me could change the breaks and do tune-ups. But the kicker was that it had a push button automatic transmission, and both front seats could be lowered, instantly transforming the car into a bed. This latter feature came in handy when traveling to rock concerts or going to the drive-in–which accounted for why kids offered me $10-$15 to borrow it for a night. It was a car I would have kept for years if the transmission hadn’t pooped out one cold February Buffalo, NY evening.
My 1965 Cherry-Red Malibu: This one was purchased in 1972 from the same car mechanic before my second trip to California. The mechanic—a big burly gentle man—detailed it so it looked brand new. The only problem was that I didn’t have enough money to buy collision insurance, and one unfortunate night I fell asleep at the wheel on the New York State Thruway and was awakened when my front end collided with a road sign anchored by two huge sandbags. The car was still drivable after that, but it wasn’t very pretty, so I decided to take it for one last trip cross-country, visiting Las Vegas, L.A., then back through New Orleans and Orlando until reaching my final home destination of Buffalo. It was a miracle it made it, though the radiator overheated in a friendly little town called Atlantic, Iowa. There, another fair-minded mechanic fixed it for peanuts, though his wife, who worked at the local motel, wouldn’t let me and my girlfriend share a room.
The above were my two most memorable cars, except for an orange 1973 Volvo Station Wagon I bought in 1985 (see my essay on numbskulls). Some of the others? A Volkswagen Beetle, a Corvair, a brand-new 1975 Vega, a Yellow 1979 Toyota Corolla, and many Subaru Foresters. Most of the Toyotas and Subarus were chosen on the basis of financial concerns because I was married and had kids.
By now, it’s evident that I too have been defined by my cars, which seems to make me a hypocrite. But the difference, I think, is that I never chose a car because of its looks, the way some men choose a woman or a $3000 suit. To me, all that mattered were the memories I could squeeze out of the time I owned the car.
After all, you can’t marry a car or make it your friend. And you don’t, or at least shouldn’t have to, live in it. It’s just something that gets you from one place to another.
But the memories you associate with it, man, those are precious … It’s 1969 and I’m in my friend’s (Tom Bogucki) Austin-Healey Sprite convertible, speeding through a June night to some hippie bars on the shores of Lake Erie. To put it bluntly, the Sprite is a piece of shit; the floor on the passenger-side is so rusted that I have to keep one foot up on the glove compartment. I can actually see the road underneath us as we charge forward–“Gimme Shelter” blasting from the 8-track stereo. We are eighteen, and, in our minds, we might as well be driving to party at Mick Jagger’s manor in the English countryside.
Yeah, I know what you’re thinking: Ah, so you were as much of a cliché as the old guy and young blonde you trashed above?
And maybe you’re right.
But so what, dude? I’m still in the car with my friend, the wind chilling my cheeks, a cigarette aflame between my knees. We’re young and cool and dumb …
Beep-beep, beep-beep, yeah! …
You can find Peter Johnson’s books, along with interviews with him, appearances, and other information at peterjohnsonauthor.com
His most recent book of prose poems is While the Undertaker Sleeps: Collected and New Prose Poems
His most recent book of fiction is Shot: A Novel in Stories
Find out why he is giving away his new book of prose poem/fragments, even though he has a publisher for it, by downloading the PDF from the below link or going to OLD MAN’S homepage. His “Note to the Reader” and “Introduction” at the beginning of the PDF explains it all: Observations from the Edge of the Abyss
Ohhhhhhhhhh thank you for the laugh out loud at your shredded calves! Still smiling. And thank you for awakening memories of a young hot woman who loved hot cars and hot men who loved hot cars. Phew, all this heat and I am past menopause. And not past the warmth of loving these rememberings. I shined up my own cars and carefully placed huge bright daisy decals on rust holes. A Chevrolet dealership was my first job. I knew the specs of all the cars. I knew who slept with whom among the salesmen and office women. I very quickly learned that some slick handsome salesmen in suits would grope and grab at any moment they thought they would not get caught. A few may still have some marks. And smile at the memories of cars and men. And smile and wonder how he told his wife he got those scratch marks.
Oh, Peter, as so often you have made my day. I had a '64 Mailbu myself; since it's been pracrticality over everything else. Plus, a brand new Malibu coststs 2300 dollars! Oh, wait: that was in 1964. Than ks as always.