Car Tune

"Here in my car, I feel safest of all. I can lock all my doors, it's the only way to live. In cars."

- Gary Numan.

You've heard the song, you know you have. Even if you don't like it, you still find yourself humming or singing it if you hear it. It's one of those songs that's fun to sing and all those worries you might have just disappear for three minutes and thirty-seven seconds. For those, like me, who have a quirky love affair with music from the 1980s, it's an essential component of any 80s mixed CD you make for a cute girl. Well, that and "Take On Me" by A-ha, but that's another story.

For me, a car was always nothing more than a four-wheeled, motorized conveyance vessel for the purpose of getting you from Point A to Point B. Of course, this was in the days when I didn't have a car and just wanted to give my feet a much needed rest (I walked EVERYWHERE. I walked more than Jesus. In fact, I WAS like Jesus, save for the fact I don't look like a hippie, can't perform miracles and will most likely go to Hell).

I learned how to drive using the family van. This wasn't the emasculating minivan other men my age dejectedly have to pilot when they cart their precious little hellions to some organized activity they seem to feel their kids need. No, this was a Ford Econoline with a 351 Cleveland engine, mag wheels, captains chairs and a bed in the back my Pop constructed. It was a rolling love machine. I suppose it was a bit of a unique way to learn how to drive, surpassed only by a rocket sled, space shuttle or stolen police car. Whenever I was allowed to drive to the store, I always made sure I detoured to the school parking lot, where my friends hung out, and blasted "Kashmir" in a desperate attempt to look cool.

Eventually, I needed my own car. My Aunt Peg won a Benson & Hedges contest where she won every item shown in a magazine photo. One of those things was a Thunderbird, which made their Bronze Age-era Honda Accord expendable. It was my first car and this beggar wasn't being too choosy. My new car wasn't the most stylish thing on the road. It looked like it was designed by manic-depressive Dadaist artists. Each door, quarter panel and the hood were different colors and it was rusting so badly that pieces of it would fly off whenever I went at least 35 mph. But, it was mine, all mine, and for that, I loved it.

When I was in college, I found myself short on funds for rent one month, so I sold it to my friend, Norm. I told him I would sell it to him for $200 and split any repair costs for the next six months. Norm said if I sold it to him for $175, he would take care of any potential repair costs that ensued. Regrettably, I agreed and parted with my first car, but I needed a roof over my head more than four wheels under my ass. Two weeks later, I ran into Norm on campus. I asked him how the car was doing and he said "Doc (one of my many nicknames in college), it's running like a dream." I muttered a few insults in his direction through a clenched-teeth smile and went on my way to blow off another class. The following week, I ran into Norm again, but this time at one of the campus bus stops. As I recall, the conversation went down like this:

Me: "Say, Norm, why are you taking the bus? Where's the car?"

Norm: (exasperated gust of a sigh) "Doc, it died on me."

Me: "What happened?"

Norm: "Engine block cracked."

Me: "Bummer. But a deal's a deal."

Norm: "Yeah, but I only had it a few..."

Me: "Deal's a deal, Nommy."

I pivoted on my heel and walked towards another class that I eventually blew off. It taught me a lesson. Don't look for that lesson here because I've forgotten what it was. I was now ready for car #2.

My next vehicle was a 1972 Ford Maverick. Eggshell white. It was owned by my grandparents and probably never saw the north side of 45 mph. Ever. I took care of that within two seconds of turning the ignition. In fact, me getting behind the wheel probably shocked the poor automobile into a heart attack. Before you can say "You need to change the oil every now and again," it was left a smoking, hollow shell by the side of the highway.

Next was an early-80s Cutlass Supreme I inherited from my other grandmother. I never put oil into this car, either. It also died by the side of the road. This time, I I finally learned my lesson - never accept a car from a relative. It was time to buy a car from a respected used car dealer.

It was a stunningly beautiful Mustang. Ultra cool and as classic as they come, I had finally arrived. Unfortunately, it was possessed by the ghost of a disgruntled employee of Henry Ford. The first week I had it, the windshield cracked. After the first month, the paint started to flake off the hood. I was driving a leper car. Since it was rear-wheel drive and a very light car, driving in snow was sheer terror. Hell, it would careen all over the road even when it was cloudy. I'm a pretty brave man. I've killed a Bengal tiger with my bare hands, punched out a bull elephant and drank Coor's Light (don't let anyone fool you - Coor's Light isn't beer; it's grassy water with a hint of beer "flavoring"), but I was terrified driving this thing in bad weather. I once had a cackling truck driver put me into a snow bank on an uphill climb because I couldn't get any traction. Good time. At least I put oil into it. It was time to move on. It was also then I entered into a tortured love affair with the Ford Probe.

My mom owned an early model Ford Probe and that car was incredibly fun to drive. The one I bought (actually leased) was the same color as my ill-fated Mustang but it was a new model and looked like a sports car. Handled like one, too. Best of all, it was front wheel drive. Bring on the snow, Mother Nature, you bitter wench!

I. Loved. This. Car. It was so much fun to drive and handled like a Corvette. It also looked kinda cool. Then, on April 1, 1997, it all changed. I was driving back from Red Lobster with my girlfriend when an 18-wheeler merged into my driver's side door on I-95. I said to Michelle, "Man, that tire is getting awfully close to..." BANG! The tire hit my door. I couldn't have changed lanes because there was a car barely ahead of me to the right and I was waiting for him to get completely clear so I could change lanes. The impact sent us violently to the right. I tried to control the car and the steering locked up - and sent us right back towards the truck. We were headed right under the tires when I somehow had the wherewithall (one word?) to somehow guide the car away from certain pancaking and bounced back off the same tire that initiated this fun little adventure. We shot from left to right again and slammed into the guard rail. The impact was so great we rebounded back into the middle of the highway. God must have done well at the track that day because he was feeling generous and ensured there were no other cars close enough to us to either hit or hit us. After checking to see if Michelle was ok, I assessed my own personal damage. I was alive. We both were; and we both walked away relatively unscratched. It was a miracle. Hmmm, maybe I AM Jesus. Sadly, my little car didn't make it. It was completely totaled. It looked like it was destroyed by a truck or something. I was back at work by April 3rd.

I decided to get another Ford Probe since the first one sacrificed its life to save ours. This one was black, even sportier, and this time, no lease. Not much to say about this car other than it was an absolute dream to drive. I drove it until the wheels fell off and the engine seized in front of my Pop's house. In fact, it died just as I was coming off the highway ramp. The steering partially locked and I coasted off the ramp, merged on to the road, coasted slowly down to my Pop's street, pulled the muscles in both arms to turn down his street and eventually came to rest in front of his house. Time for Ford Probe #3.

This one was white and took a while to like, but once I did, it was a love affair all over again. It was a GT, with a tremendously expensive sound system, black tinted windows and erotically magnificent Pirelli tires. I had it for four years until it mysteriously stopped starting. I would have it towed to the shop where the mechanic would tell me that "It started right up for me." I would pick it up, drive it for a month or two, and the same thing would happen. This occurred about seven or eight times over the last two years and it was as frustrating as my experiences on Match.com (a future story. I won't reveal any names, sorry). It was almost as bad as having an insane girlfriend. I eventually had to cut the cord. Fortunately, my mechanic had a car he was willing to sell me for cheap. Wouldn't you know it - it was a hunter green...wait for it...Ford Probe. I'm not going to waste a new paragraph on that car because the transmission dropped out of it within two months. It was time to walk away and try a new direction.

I hunted all over for a Saab. My buddy, Doug, whose opinion I hold in high regard (one of the only people whose opinion I actually respect), has two of them and raves about them. He also knows it takes a certain dedicated person to own and properly maintain one. I figured I finally learned to change the oil in my car so I must be ready. I went to the lot to pick it up after seeing it online, but when I arrived, the convertible top wouldn't open. I had about three people try to make that damned thing open. Once it was finally opened, it wouldn't shut. I wouldn't have minded if it never was cold, rainy, snowing or I lived in a world without crime, but Utopia is a story not a reality. I took that time to case the lot to occupy my mind.

Then I saw it.

When I was young, there was a car a few neighborhoods over that bugged my eyes out of my head. It was a cherry red 1968 Jaguar XJ-12. Black convertible roof and brilliant, shimmering spoke rims. It was that classic "slipper" shape and even my primitive brain knew this was like dating the cutest girl in the office. No, I take that back. It was like being Hugh Hefner. Owning a car like that means you would never be able to notice what color the car was because it would be such a chick magnet women would just throw themselves on it. Ok, I'm drooling now. Moving on. Back to the car lot.

It was a Jaguar. I didn't dare...or did I? The owner of the lot came over to me and could see my Adam's Apple bouncing up and down like a Super Ball in an OCD asylum. "She's a beaut, isn't she?" I gurgled something like, "Me want" and he slapped the keys into my sweaty palm. I got behind the wheel and almost had an accident even before I turned the key. It was love. It was obsession. It was WAY out of my league.

I had to have it.

After taking what seemed like a fortnight, the paperwork was signed, the Saab was a vacant memory and I was pulling out of the lot. Ever date a girl who you KNEW was WAY too good for you? I have. Pretty much every girl I've ever dated. I didn't feel good enough to even look at it, let alone drive it. I could almost hear the car say to itself, "You've gotta be kidding me. I have YOU as an owner?" It was like holding a loaded gun and my hands were shaking on the steering wheel. I knew I had to get a grip and calm down. I was so worried about crashing that I almost crashed. Fortunately, I had my mp3 player with me. I had the cassette adapter and searched for a song to ease my mind. Then I found it and turned it up loud:

"Here in my car, I feel safest of all. I can lock all my doors, it's the only way to live. In cars."

Now if I can only remember to change the oil.