FAHGEDABOUDIT, the NEW CAR
People don't love their cars the way they used to. You don't even see many folks rubbing a good coat of wax on them, after a sudsy wash and rinse. Or for that matter, do you see guys under the hoods, tinkering with the innards. The new ones have such complicated motors and computerized systems that one can only guess where a can of oil goes. Take a look under the bonnet of an old Mercedes and you can identify its distinctive parts, each one knowing its job to get this old gal moving down the highway.
My husband and I decide our 1978 two-door, Mark V, Lincoln Continental is getting close to its last days. As time goes by, it becomes larger and more cumbersome with age, much like me. Sleek, black, Mr. Lincoln served us well in his youth, with its comfortable leather seats, moon roof and sweet-sounding radio, but little by little his capabilities diminish. The clock died nine years earlier, the air conditioner a couple of years before that, and an assortment of parts and knobs had dropped off or are slowly flunking out. Even our local car wash is not big enough to accommodate the old man and I must wear rain gear for protection from leaks in the sunroof.
Inasmuch, as I'm only five feet tall on good days and shrinking daily with age, most of my friends tell me that when they see the recognizable black, land cruiser they are unable to find me and they are not sure if Mr. Lincoln is out on his own without a driver. And since I can barely see over the tractor-size steering wheel I am really challenged when I approach a hill on our narrow country roads. The back end of the car swoops down, while the hood raises high in the air, like the end of the sinking Titanic, and I literally drive blind. I pray that children, chickens or for that matter anything shorter than the front bumper will not walk in front of the black behemoth.
As a reverential wife, I put aside my desires of antique autos to look at a newer car, but I still adore the idea of old classic beauties. While Ed and I check out the new and used cars, I fall in love with a particular old model Mercedes. But my practical, unromantic spouse comes up with all the reasons it is a foolish idea to own such a vehicle.
When I was a young girl, I was able to identify cars by their names and models. They were beautifully designed and constructed, with leather interiors, shining chrome, and wooden dashboards. A horn was a horn and you could find it. Nowadays, I have problems recognizing any of the new automobiles. They all appear without character, stability, or nobility.
After months of research we settle on a new, conservative, four-door, silver gray blue, Lincoln Continental, very serviceable, stable, and totally devoid of personality. I will need a sonar system to find it in the parking lots amidst all the other silver gray blue, efficient body-movers.
We sold Mr. Lincoln to a young man who had visions of turning our distinguished sleek giant into a rocking low rider. With the purchase we forfeit spread-out room, in our new high-price machine, by replacing our immense leather bench seat with bucket shape ones, well named I might add. To further the challenge, we now have a built-up step at the door where you must bring your leg up high in order to extricate your body. I wonder if the test engineers ever tried to get out of this container pregnant, or with an arthritic knee, a woman's purse, high heels, or for that matter a belly full of Thai food.
But wait. Not all is bad. We now have computerized comfort surrounding us. Buttons. Buttons, for all our needs, although now we need reading glasses to find them.
A system check? Push a button.
Inside/outside temperatures? Push a button.
Seat settings? Push a button. Up, down, back, forward.
Push a button and air is pumped into your bottom.
And in case Americans ever decide to try the metric system. Push a button.
The radio is preset, handy but unstable, especially if the car is not facing the right direction. I just want to fine-tune my selections. This thing looks like the interior of a spacecraft and about as spacious.
But the prize of this land ship is a remote control on our key ring. Four little buttons: Lock - Unlock - Trunk - Panic. It is a marvel to watch my husband getting used to ‘Mr. Hulot's’ Button World. As he gets into the car and settles in, I can see this new personal taxi is going to bring complications to our lives. For weeks, I watch my beloved bend to the idiosyncrasies of modern technology. Several minutes before he leaves the garage, I watch the technological show as windows and seats move up and down several times, while intermittently the windshield is unintentionally washed by the wipers which become activated along with the turn signals. The side mirrors take on a life of their own, up, down, left, right, constantly moving, moving.
As soon as we put the gearshift into drive everyone is permanently locked in and only the driver has controls of the main lock. This places another burden on passengers trying to come inside. There is a subtle frenzied dance that occurs to signal the holder of the 'unlock' button, which has become misplaced.
My husband soon discovers another inconvenience to his button drama. Every time we need to drive somewhere, he must get out of the car to close the inadvertently popped hood or trunk. It is to be a while before he stops using the hood release for an emergency brake release.
We decide to take our new talented family addition to dinner. We find, at Ed’s request, the farthest parking spot at our popular restaurant. We get out of the vehicle and spouse points the dynamic remote at the car, as if he is searching for the television-wrestling channel, and commands it to lock the doors. The trunk flies open. Once more spouse hits the button. Diners gather for the show as the horn resounds with an anxious beat of panic. Once more. This time the horn continues to blow and the trunk again soars open. Once more.
He’s got it. It’s finally locked. Good, very good. At the rate we are gaining wisdom about these gadgets, we could be learning the accordion.
Our first home only cost $12,000.00 while this body mover ran three times that. The problem with a new car is where to park this expensive bit of tin. My husband's paranoia with my parking choices, become our continual bone of contention.
"Why did you park here?" he asks.
"Because it's an empty place?"
"I don't like this spot. There's a car next to it."
"How's this one, dear?"
"No. There's one over there."
"That's two blocks away."
Mercedes where are you when I need you?
