More than a few years ago, on a frigid morning in northern California, six guys who lived next door were gathered around the open hood of a car that refused to budge. They were stumped. Apparently, none of them ever worked in a garage to pay for college. This was my chance to be a superhero.
Their car was an aging Pontiac LeMans, just like my Jezebel, who regularly made the 2,982-mile trip from the East Coast to California, much to my mechanic’s amazement. (He bet against her surviving a trip across town.) But he didn’t understand women, human or metal. Jezebel just needed adventure. That, and something to pry the butterfly choke open whenever the temperature dropped.
So I sauntered up to the frat meeting and casually asked what the problem was. The guys tried to ignore me, of course. “Get in and start the engine,” I commanded while prying the choke open with confident flair.
Broooommmmm. Like magic, the engine started purring as their mouths dropped to knee level. I didn’t get a trophy or a thank-you note, but that victorious moment is forever etched on my mental highlight reel. (Thank you, Jezebel.)
Cars have always been more than just a way to get from here to there. We name them. We polish them. We beg our kids not to throw up in them. Our cars become our protective exoskeletons, best friends and confidants. Your passenger may repeat what you screamed at the last yahoo to cut you off, but your car won’t say a word.
Having a love affair with a motorized machine isn’t new. Prince had a “Little Red Corvette.” Bruce Springsteen had a “Pink Cadillac.” Wilson Pickett had “Mustang Sally” and Janis Joplin had a “Mercedes Benz,” assuming the Lord agreed to buy her one.
Once your life stops revolving around stuffing kids in a minivan, you start rethinking your ride and searching for a vehicle that expresses who you are or wish you were.
Maybe that’s what Norma, longtime cashier at Food Lion, was thinking when she abruptly ditched her Ford Flex for a classic Corvette. The Flex wasn’t flashy, but at least her purse fit in the front seat. As sleek and iconic as Vettes are, they’re stingy, comfort-wise. I’ve ridden skateboards with more road clearance. And as for climbing out of the driver’s seat, Norma—who is allergic to StairMasters—should have waited for a model that offered a built-in forklift. (Nobody said your fantasy car has to be practical.)
Smaller and faster didn’t do it for my 72-year-old neighbor. Miss Maggie’s been driving a Honda Civic forever, but last month a 38-foot RV appeared in her driveway. From what I’ve seen, she can’t parallel park a toothpick, but Miss M is ready to maneuver this monster as long as there’s no compelling reason to back up. (If you don’t need that silly reverse gear, you can probably get a better deal.)
My personal fantasy car will probably end up being a truck, since my Jeep is always stuffed to the moonroof with art supplies, goodies for some animal shelter and at least three drooling dogs hanging out the windows. We’d fit better in a truck.
Driving a Ram, Titan, Gladiator or something with an equally macho moniker would make me feel invincible. The way I felt in my dad’s last Oldsmobile. Yeah. Let Bruce keep his pink Cadillac. Give me a 6.2-liter V8, half-ton, eco-diesel, Hemi thing with 420 hp any day.*
*I have no idea what I just said, but if there’s a choke, I’ll find it.
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Jan A. Igoe was shocked by the enormous price tags on new trucks, which cost more than 120 Jezebels. Maybe she can afford one without that reverse thing. Welcome to 2020! Join us at HumorMe@SCLiving.coop.