The first car I paid for by myself was a Buick Electra convertible. The make was commonly considered the longest car ever manufactured in the U.S.
I abandoned it, sandwiched by cornfields, broken down in Nebraska in 1969.
It remains the only car, at least in the Midwest, with a mailing address, as two families are comfortably still living in it. My girlfriend dumped me right there and thumbed back East with a stranger, setting in motion a disturbing course of using my cars as revenge.
Until I was married, it never occurred to me that the only reason I worked at all was to buy expensive cars.
Fine cars are a clear indicator of compatibility to a woman, even more, precise than astrological signs and a sense of humor.
I know this was oafish, but I mainly hunted beautiful girls. I was wounded, and this seemed an appealing brand of retaliation.
These stunning women, some of whom could barely sneeze without advice, could report to you the price and year of any car on the road.
I had a little money at the time and engaged my prey without conscience.
When I married, the dynamic of seduction had to be re-calibrated. Using my car as an aphrodisiac was now unthinkable ( as well as perilous).
We moved to a small town that magnetized itself to young couples.
Everyone buys Volvo station wagons, just like we did. It is the car that women start coaxing men to buy before they have even broached the idea of children.
These fertile women use the pretext of “might need the extra room for a dog.”
The Volvo is the most duplicitous machine ever marketed. It is breathtakingly fast ( drawing in, the unsure erect male). What never comes up is that crash test dummies sometimes play Scrabble during high-speed collision tests in Sweden.
My current car is big like my first one. We are getting old together and are entering more predictable repair periods now.
It takes me to doctors, and I take it to George, our Iranian mechanic on Main St.
I am beginning to sense a queer but certain smugness coming from this car. Like it thinks it might outlast me.
Then that hardness in me shows itself again, and I suggest that it might be like an apartment in Nebraska.