I have been remiss in not acknowledging my recent change in vehicles.
It is with a touch of sadness that I must report that I am sending the mercedes into retirement. After rejecting offers from the Smithsonian, I have decided to put the mercedes out to pasture with a not-for-profit group who will cart her off the Grapes’ Lido deck without charging me… I have reminded them of the rarity of this car, and expect a confirming document to that fact… something that should lead to a huge tax write off (two can play at this game Donald Trump!).
I may even vote Republican in the next general election.
For those who have tried to unearth the true identity of this auto… let me make it easy. It is in fact a 1988 Red Chevy Sprint.
I acquired it from Lynn and Alan some nine years ago. It had been Lisa’s… Alan got it second hand, and I think this is true, from some little old lady in Greenwich who only drove it to and from Stop & Shop (oh, maybe she took it to the Beauty Parlor, too).
I was getting the car for Zack’s use. He was 17 at the time… and he has to be the only kid I know who got his license at 16 and then showed no interest in actually driving a car. But I think it was when he was a Senior at Norwalk that he finally relented and consented to driving himself to the “before sunrise swim workouts”.
One small obstacle. The Sprint (or the “Spit”, as it was called in those days) was a stick shift and while Zack knew how to drive, he had not passed shifting skills 101 yet. But that was moot. Ellen was reluctant to let Zack drive a car that was antiquated in safety technology (I think if she had her druthers, Zack would have gone to swim practice in a Tiger Tank).
Zack got my Saturn and I inherited the Sprint.
And when Zack headed into the fleshpots of New York City, it was time for Shaina to get her license. And while she would eventually learn to drive a stick shift, she, too, would take the Saturn to High School.
Silly me. I should have installed air bags, ABS brakes, a drogue shoot and a flotation collar on the Sprint.
Well… Soon Shaina would be off to Keene & for a brief sojourn I would regain the Saturn.
In the interim two events worthy of note. Zack would finally be admitted to the sacred company of citizens who can drive a manual stick shift… and he would in fact use the car briefly to drive to his first “real job” in Stamford. I don’t think Ellen was too thrilled with this… and I think that Zack had to plan driving routes that would not put him at stop lights on hills.
Secondly, the “Spit” had morphed into the mercedes. When I started at Grapes, this car became the subject of some amusement. It’s small, square of look, of indeterminate vintage and was a source of inquiry… “where did you get that heap?”
“Heap?”…. and without skipping a beat, “are you gentlemen referring to my mercedes?”
“Mercedes? You must be kidding!!”
“No, I am in earnest. My Brother-in-Law sold it to me for $10 (I had to talk him up from $5… pride you know). I got a good price on it because it didn’t have that hood ornament”.
My concession to my Father’s memory was using a lower case “m” in referencing the car. You see, my Father was of a generation that thought anything of German manufacture was made by I.G. Farben and/or in some way was connected to the crematoria at Birkenau.
OK… so it wasn’t the best looking car on the Lido. Big Deal. It drove well in the snow… granted I roasted in the summer with no AC… and the radio received only one station (as long as I was within two miles, as the crow flies, from its main transmitter); but I could park the car anywhere. This latter detail proved invaluable when I hopped into the City to catch Sunday football with Zack & crew at Josie Woods’… street parking in and around the Village being somewhat at a premium. I could park that car in a shoebox if I had to.
And why do you think folks gave me wide berth in a parking lot? Did they fear that I might open my door in an enthusiastic manner and perhaps nick their BMW?
There has been a certain comfort tooling around in the mercedes. I never thought much about it.
It took me by surprise that two of my Grapes’ colleagues, Barbara and Donna, thought that I actually had a Mercedes. Talk of the mercedes with Holtie, Mikey Bordeaux or Wally was no big thing. Everyone knew the gag… or so I thought. Everyone save Barb and Donna. They both thought that the Mercedes was kept in Stamford for use, presumably, on special occasions like “Sunday-going-to-Meeting”.
I guess I should be flattered. Hey… I have that Mercedes type of pedigree… you know, Prep School, Skull & Bones at Yale, Debutante Escort, Wharton School of Business, restricted Country Clubs, summer in the Hamptons… or maybe it was summer in Woodmont.
Oh well… you have the idea.
Barb and Donna just figured me for “Class”. Was I going to disappoint them?
But eventually we find out that there is no Santa Claus (a discovery that I made when I was 24), and eventually Donna found out about the mercedes from Sandy… and I was the one who told Barb…
What can I say… I love the off-beat nature of driving a car that is a bit “down at the heel” as the English are wont to say.
This sense of “charm” was lost on Suzy. Even though there was a time that I had no competition for the Saturn’s use, I had to put my better car away because I was out of lease miles. So on school days I would pick Suzy up in the morning and welcome her to the cozy confines of the mercedes. She would observe that the heater was deficient.
“Pah! It’s warm as toast in here!”
Then there was some question about how it looked to emerge from the mercedes in front of school friends and acquaintances. Not particularly fashionable… I grant you.
Well, I love Suzy and, in my manner, I would make light of the situation, “Suzy you are lucky… do you realize that there are more Dusenbergs on the road than this car!!”
Yes, it is rare. When was the last time you saw another one?
But I took a call recently from Dani in Pocatello, Idaho. In her travels hither and yon, what does she espy? Not one; but two Chevy Sprints, same colour and of similar age and state of repair.
I didn’t want to say anything; but I felt for sure that the back of those mercedes were stocked with sacks of uncooked rice, a small quantity of concertina wire, and two dozen rounds of 60mm mortar shells.
The back of my mercedes has a picnic blanket, a colourful beach towel, a sand chair, a bottle of suntan lotion that makes you smell like a pina colada, John Iriving’s Son of Circus and one of those “things” that can jump start your car by itself.
Two different concepts of survival, I suppose…
But the days of the mercedes were numbered. Vinnie, the proprietor and mechanic extraordinaire of the garage next to Grapes had kept the mercedes running on “baling wire and glue”.
In truth, I had put far too much money into it. New alternator, new clutch, new battery, countless tires. Always a little “poison” at a time. The mercedes had become an annuity for Vinnie. “Here Vinnie, take my pay check… buy me lunch later.”
Last year my transmission surrendered its first gear. This I attributed, by the by, to my attempt to teach Suzy how to drive a stick. What she did to first gear would be considered a war crime in the Hague.
Vinnie poo-pooed it… “What do you need first gear for anyway? You can drive without it for years.”
I loved the “for years” part. I had no inclination to replace a car of such character and appeal. But trying to hold the hill in second gear on the approach to Stew Leonard’s from the West was nigh impossible. I had to rev the engine’s RPM to a level that you only hear on the tarmac of Laguardia.
And then there was the issue of oil. I began going thru three quarts of 10-40 very ten days or so. I knew it was bad when I got a birthday card from the Secretariat of OPEC thanking me and wishing me continued driving success.
So, as I say, the mercedes’ days were numbered, the writing was clearly on the wall. But as in other things, we do live in denial.
The death blow was struck from an unexpected quarter. As previously noted, I could squeeze the mercedes anywhere. And not too long ago, anywhere happened to be on Washington St. in SONO. I lucked into a sparkling spot on the drag near the Black Bear. Ascher and Rachel thought a change in venue was in order… Ash Creek could survive without my patronage for one night… and besides there was a live band at the Bear that I wanted to catch. Good.
Ascher split early. I think he wanted to catch the opening of the Hang Seng in Hong Kong. When Rachel and I leave, the street is empty, I bid her good night and stroll to my sweet “VIP” parking spot.
The mercedes was gone!
It was one of two possibilities. The mercedes had been stolen (probably by an astute and eccentric automotive collector), or the gendarmes had it towed.
Aye, there is the rub. A “sweet parking spot” like I had found was too good to be true. And the local constabulary, rather than pay attention to the drug dealers operating 100 yards from their station house, decided to impound the mercedes…
So I forgot to renew the registration… I was still within the same calendar year. And big deal about the emissions sticker that hadn’t been updated since 1997. Picky, Picky.
Once I paid the various government agencies and AAA Towing… I reclaimed the mercedes; but the time to cross the Rubicon had arrived.
It really got ’round to the damn emissions thing. I would have to pay for that. And Ladies and Gentlemen, there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in Hell that the mercedes would pass the test. That would mean taking it to Vinnie who would have to do his utmost to get the mercedes up to standard… and I had run out of scholarship money…. then another test. Then a waiver…
I had temporary sticker that was good for 60 days.
That is how long I had to find a new mercedes.
Lucky for me Providence was as close as the Exxon Station next door. As it turns out, Maheesh the Maitre D’ of the Station and the Mini-Mart, was looking to sell his Red 1991 Honda.
Yes, it looked like my life was heading for an up-grade. We settled on a price… that was then adjusted in my favour when it was apparent that the car wouldn’t start due to bad wiring from the battery, secondly the primary hood latch was not operational and lastly, I had no interior lights on the dash.
But I loved the look… just the right number of dents, nicks and rust spots that would make me a threat when I park next to a new Lexus. And it was red… even more of a threat to that tan Lexus.
Still, I was having separation anxiety. But that was thru when I came into work one morning and barely made it over the hills on the Merritt Parkway… and then the mercedes “coughed and wheezed” its way on the city streets ’til it limped on to Grapes’ Lido.
Sayonara.
Vinnie gave the Honda the once over… made a barucha and to borrow an Naval term, I transferred my flag to the new mercedes.
I think the contemporary idiom is… I be stylin’.
I guess there was only one matter that had to be attended to. I mean… referring to the Honda as a mercedes devalued the concept of its original use. There could be no sequel to the mercedes.
It was last Friday, Rachel and Wally were in the bullpen at the time… I was kicking some thoughts around in my head.
“I think I should be driving a Porsche… what do you think?”
It was agreed. “Hey, Wally… what about the colour? Do Porsches come in red?”
“Sure they do! And you don’t see too many Porsche sedans on the road.”
I am starting to love this… every since Gary had the 912 in Hamden Hall, I’ve loved Porsches. I’ve made it! I’m driving a porsche!
And don’t worry Dad, I will be sure use a lower case “p”.