Does a man ever love anything as much as he loves his first car?
I come from a small town almost three hours away from my alma mater, Penn State. The trip was mainly on lightly traveled farm roads. When my city dwelling roommate visited, she couldn’t believe she had to stop to let cows cross the road. I don’t know what she would have thought if she had gotten behind a tractor driving five to ten miles an hour. While I may have wished for an easier way home, cars really were the only way. Since I didn’t own a car, ride sharing was my lifeline, and I would search for rides posted on a cork bulletin board in the student union. Most of the rides were pleasant and uneventful.
Notice I said most. There was an exception. I once found an advertisement from a fellow high school graduate going home over winter break. While I had not known Steve at all, I decided to call as he was going right to my hometown. We agreed to terms, and he proudly picked me up in his brand-new Super Bee. With all the snow, ice, and rock salt on the road, most cars were dull and gray. But not this car. As we approached it, I was surprised by how it sparkled in the sunlight. It had obviously been freshly washed and waxed despite the very cold weather. We threw our coats into the trunk along with my suitcase and got in the car. The inside was as pristine as the outside.
As we started on our journey, I casually complimented Steve on his car. This normally shy awkward man came alive. His face glowed and his voice was strong as he shared how he had worked summers in high school and saved all his money to buy it. Pride oozed as he talked about its engine, power, pickup, and speed. Steve loved his car.
And he was a good confident driver. I felt safe as he expertly maneuvered the banked curves of that mountain road. Until...Three deer started to cross the road in front of us. All country folks know your only hope is to slam on the brakes and pray you stop in time.
But buoyed by confidence in his muscle car, Steve decided to outrun them. Wrong move. We hit them head on, killing them and totaling the car. While we were both tossed around, we managed to escape uninjured. But Steve was obviously heartbroken and reverted to the shy awkward man I had passed in the halls during high school.
After discussing our options, we decided to go for help. The wind whipped around us in the freezing temperature as we walked to the trunk to get our coats and then began silently hiking along the snow-covered road hoping a farmhouse was nearby. We were freezing from our hatless heads to our wet shoes as we trod on. After what seemed like an eternity, we finally saw salvation – a home with signs of life. I had visions of a wood burning stove as we approached the home and knocked on the door. A man looked out and asked what we wanted. When we explained the situation, he agreed to call the state police, but didn’t invite us in. So, we sat huddled close together on the porch swing as we waited forty-five minutes for the police. The warmth of the patrol car was heaven, and I relaxed, thinking our problems were at an end. Nope. We had to return to the accident scene, call the State Wildlife Division, wait for them to pick up the deer, then call a tow truck and wait for it to arrive to clear the road.
At this point, I was not only physically tired and uncomfortable, I was also extremely hungry. Four hours after the accident, we finally arrived at the State Police barracks where we were allowed to call for a ride home. Steve called his father and then sheepishly informed me I had to find my own way home. Of course, my Dad agreed to leave work to pick me up but wondered why Steve’s father wouldn’t bring me along.
The mystery was solved when his Dad arrived and immediately began berating Steve. Not even the presence of the police and other people deterred him from yelling, screaming and throwing insult after insult at his son. Steve struggled to hold back tears as he faced a half hour of being alone in the car with his father while still processing the loss of his beloved car. It probably didn’t help him that my father brought me a thermos of soup and kept reassuring himself that I was okay.
While I felt sorry for Steve, we hadn’t talked before the ride and didn’t talk afterwards. I did however run into him at our 40th class reunion. He was a successful professional on his second marriage to a much younger woman and had a small child. We had a lot in common and I was impressed with how confident he had become. Until the talk turned to the Super Bee’s demise. For just a second, pain and uncertainty flicked across his face. While he recovered quickly, I realized I had been part of a life event that was so traumatic, he never truly got over it. The pain had faded and he probably rarely, if ever, thought about it, but the hurt was still there just under the surface. At the time of the accident, I was too immature and caught up in my own discomfort to be able to offer him any comfort. I wanted to remedy the situation. Not knowing quite what to say or do, I smiled up into his eyes, told him it really was a beautiful car and gently touched his upper arm. He smiled back, laughingly agreed, and gave me a half hug. The moment passed and the conversation moved on, but I hope that small gesture became part of his memory of the demise of his beloved Dodge Super Bee.
Such a sad, sad story. While losing the beloved iconic car was bad enough, I'd have been horrified and traumatized beyond comprehension knowing I'd caused the death of the people in the other car through my own irresponsible arrogance. And having a father who responded as he did instead of being relieved that his son had survived such a horrific accident would have been more than enough to put me in a psych ward for at least a week. The fact that he was comforted for the loss of his car, even laughing about it, with little consideration for the people who died I think said more about him than any other part of this story.
Super Bees go for hundreds of thousands of dollars these days. So many met fates like that because their brakes were not up to their power. And, it was immensely traumatic for you for many reasons. Steve really showed his worth when he failed to offer you a ride home. But it was probably because he didn't want you to hear what his father would yell at him the whole way.
It was Easter, and Roger and I were home from college. With my hands paralyzed I had to sell my 1957 Ford I couldn't drive, but dad found me a rusted out 1957 Desoto with flat tires for only 100 bucks. We bought it and pumped up the old tires. Easter Sunday, late in the day, it started to snow. Roger was having trouble with the carburetors on his Austin Healey Sprite, so he drove ahead with his fiancée and I followed the hundred miles back to school. To bail them out if he couldn't go on because I had plenty of room for both of them.
On one of the first curves on the new snow covered road as he was out of sight and I was trying to catch up with him, I slid right off into a waterlogged ditch. A pristine 57 Chevy stopped with a guy who was willing to help me. We drove to a nearby town. I bought a hot cup of coffee and he called his friend with a milk truck. The milk truck hooked up to my car, but couldn't pull me out. Just then, a wrecker came along and hooked onto the front of the milk truck. With both of their traction I was pulled out of the ditch with a sucking sound like a cow pulling its hoof from the muck.
When I got to school it was well past midnight and I had a clear drive on roads that were no longer slippery because they were too cold. Roger and Lin got to her dormitory after curfew not because of his carburetors but because of the heavy traffic on the interstate.
Fortunately, while I've slid towards deer with my brakes on, I've never hit one.
Inside the Methadone Clinic. Addiction to heroin, methadone, and other opiates. Destruction. The primal addiction" of the child, power and control over your own life, the institutions and the characters, the love between a mother and son. This book i
