As an itinerant tinkerer, I enjoyed working on used cars. Tune-ups, oil changes, brake jobs, and repairs made me feel at home. The dirtier I got, the better I felt. There was some sort of bond built between me and the years of accumulated oil, grease, and tar I found on the underside of the engine and frame.
The 2009 Subaru Forester (purchased in 2008) is still my daily driver. Its joints are in the exact same shape as mine – arthritic and nerve damaged. We relate. We offer each other comfort. Way back when, a long-long time ago (circa 1990) in Yonkers, New York, I fell in love with Subarus when I was given the opportunity to drive Phyllis’ cousin’s brand new one. I was supposed to be behind the wheel of this car. It was ordained.
Margaret is a wonderful person. Generous to a fault. She offered to drive me to the dealer and purchase one for me. It was a time when money was tight and under any other circumstances I probably would have accepted her offer. She was willing to write the check for $25,000 right then and there. Few things in life can get me to shut up on a dime. This was one of them. It didn’t take me more than 30 seconds or so to politely turn her down as I gritted my teeth and clenched my hands into fists.
I knew Phyllis would have a cow if I ended up driving cross country in a new car instead of flying home. I used the very plausible excuse of not being able to register a car without California emissions controls installed – which was the bona fide truth. That didn’t end the love affair between me and the Subaru.
We had a family ritual that endured for around 25 years. Phyllis’ mom would buy a new Honda every couple of years. She would give Phyllis her car, Phyllis would pass her Honda to me, I’d follow suit and give my car to Sasha, and Sasha would graciously offer hers to our housekeeper. This domino effect continued unabated until 2008 when I was gainfully employed and itching for something new.
The problem I had with used cars was that I would fall in love with a clunker that had just barely survived the Battle of San Juan Hill. I once bought a ‘63 Dodge Dart with a push button transmission for $600. The car got 40 miles to a quart of oil. The previous owners left so fast when they dropped off the car that I got a bad case of whiplash watching them count the money and laugh at the same time. My love for old cars was like wearing the proverbial “Kick Me” moniker on my back.
Phyllis would do a slow burn every time I brought home a clunker. This one threw a rod (destroyed the engine) in Cabazon the day I snapped one of my favorite B&W photos:
This lady stood patiently as I assembled my 4 x 5 view camera onto my tripod and arranged the photo. She was waiting for a bus. The day called for a red filter to darken the sky. The stiff winds moved the trees back and forth during my long exposure. As I thanked the woman for her patience and started my car, I heard the loud thunk that I knew was the death knoll for my engine.
Cabazon is still as bleak and empty today as it was in the early 80s when I took this image. I have no idea how I found the telephone to call for a tow truck to cart me and my dead Dodge home.
Phyllis rolled her eyes. Again.
It was nearly 1985 and it was obvious Phyllis was with child. I had to step up and make a decision. The un-air conditioned 1971 VW Karmann Ghia I had fallen in love with without seeing the horrendous rust and collision damage (quite visible to anyone with two functional eyes) was wholly unsuitable for bringing a new baby home from the hospital.
I had to buy a new car – but to do so I would have to gird my loins before entering the battle. The desert we lived in during those days was, mostly desert. Few car dealers lined Hwy 111. It required a trip to Riverside to find a car, and the ordeal was not ever placated by even the best doobie available. It was shear horror and I wasn’t game at all.
One dealer tried tag teaming me with two ultra sized bozos. One would try to ‘negotiate’ a price with me, and when I wouldn’t budge from my previous offer (that was the greatest part of being Jewish back then, I knew how to wheel and deal) he would leave the room and send in his partner to hound me a bit. This got tedious very quickly. They left me alone for over a half hour, thinking I’d break from either loneliness or hunger. I wanted to bolt, but I wanted them to know that I knew what they knew. So, I waited.
When Big Boy #2 returned after a 40-minute dwell period, I instantly wiped the smirk off his face. I stood up, told him to ‘go fuck yourself’, and walked out.
The next dealer was not of this earth. As I rose to exit stage left when the negotiations stalled, he followed me outside. He actually grabbed the door handle of Phyllis’ Camaro, and held on to it as I began to drive away. He wouldn’t let go. I pressed the gas pedal to the floor. I don’t really know if I dragged him down the street – and to this day I don’t really care. (He didn’t come home with me, so I have to figure he let go.)
Phyllis’ jaw was agape as I recalled the day’s events.
There was a Dodge dealer in Palm Springs, so as a last-ditch effort, I strolled down there and had a look see. The Dodge Caravan beckoned me hither. I was smitten. I saw the young salesman as an easy kill, so I thought I’d have some fun with him. After a half hour or so of back and forth, furtive slips of paper being traded between the salesman and his boss, we reached an understanding. It was my understanding we reached. His didn’t matter to me from the get go.
After the papers were signed and money changed hands, he momentarily turned off his salesman façade. As he handed me the keys and I opened the door to the First New Car in My Life he asked me where I learned to deal like that.
I leaned forward and said: “I’m Jewish, we’re born with that ability.”
I went to Sears and grilled the salesman about infant car seats. I told him I needed one that could survive an earthquake and a hurricane, but not necessarily in that order. The one I purchased was built like a brick shit house. It almost looked bulletproof. That, was precisely what I wanted for our new baby.
Satiated, finally, I drove home to show Phyllis. We oohed and aahed for quite a while.
The night before Phyllis’ water broke, I was entertaining a Japanese 5th degree black belt that I trained with at the dojo in Los Angeles. Him and his girlfriend came down for the weekend. Seeing his other side for the first time –- he was a nuclear physicist -- was refreshing. It was also pleasant to be facing him and not getting the crap kicked out of me.
I was curious about the Japanese principal of Mushin (no mind or empty mind). It took me nearly 35 years to embrace that ideal.
It was the following morning at around 6 am when Phyllis woke me up and told me it was time to head to the hospital. It took us all of 8 minutes to dress, brush our teeth, and grab our GO BAG. We were out the door and into my Caravan, which still had the new car smell wafting through the pillars.
I ran every red right between Rancho Mirage and Palm Springs that day. Two days later when Phyllis was released from the hospital, we carried our bundle of joy to the Dodge. She was so small and the car seat was so large that we lost her momentarily after she settled into her tank-of-a-seat.
“Where’s Sasha?” we both exclaimed simultaneously.
After a good laugh we settled in and I pointed the car towards home. For the most part, it drove itself to the house. Quietly, we navigated the highway home. When we arrived, elated but exhausted, we trudged into the living room with our new baby. Reality smacked us upside the face, Phyllis looked at me and exclaimed:
“What do we do now?”
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