My memory is razor sharp, except at certain times of the day, like when I’m awake. So, you’ll forgive and sympathize with errors in chronology or technology below, and you’ll also understand my deliberate or inadvertent omissions. I don’t wish to wear you out (or in, for that matter).

~~~~

Shortly after college graduation, I consulted a realtor about lodgings close to my new job. As I recall, this was on a Friday, and I had to start work the next Monday. The realtor found an available place, the front half of a little duplex, in El Segundo, California, one that met my limited pocketbook.

I moved in that afternoon, if you call bringing one thin suitcase a move. In contrast, my move to Fernley, Nevada, relocated half the possessions held by this state. I blame my wife for that. (I like to blame Ann for things.)

The duplex was sparsely but adequately furnished, and I settled in quickly that afternoon. Furnishings included a small television set—one obtaining its signal through a “rabbit ears” antenna. For those unaware, that device consists of a cup-sized plastic base from which sprouts two metal rods forming a vee. Experimentation showed that if I rotated and altered the rabbit ears, the antenna controlled Los Angeles’ weather. That is, I produced “snow” in pictures on LA’s TV channels, no doubt to the discomfort of studio personnel.

Anyway, I eventually homed in on an almost watchable channel offering automobile ads—which were of vital interest since I lacked transportation to my new job. Most auto agencies proudly advertised vehicles beyond my financial resources, but a small used-car agency offered hope.

You know the kind of dealership I mean: one that promoted, as I recall, a one-year-old Cadillac, driven by a little old schoolmarm. It was priced at $75, something I could afford.

So I hastened to the dealership by taxicab, arriving there with $84 dollars and some change. I asked to see the Cadillac, but unfortunately, the salesman, a friendly, clean-cut, young hoodlum, said it had been sold before my arrival. “Well,” I said, “can you show me some inexpensive cars?” It was a dumb question; “inexpensive” was the dealership’s hallmark.

The salesman showed progressively cheaper used vehicles, but I had to admit not being able to afford them (his agency only did cash business, no credit). Nightfall having fallen, he said, “I’ve got one more car to show. We acquired it moments ago. In fact, its engine is still running.” (I should have been suspicious about that, but desperation fogged my critical powers.)

It was a Buick, hardly dented at all, with acceptable tires (I kicked them to make sure). Can’t remember the Buick’s model year; 1777 comes to mind. Anyway, I walked around the car, pretending to inspect it before making an offer. Since I’m a descendent of Bedouin camel-traders, those supreme hagglers, I said or rather asked, “Would you take $80 for it?”

The salesman failed miserably at stifling a laugh before saying, “I’ll ask my manager.” He walked past a group of salesmen—you know; the kind I mean, the ones that wait like vultures for a prospective sucker, ‘er customer. He said something, and they chuckled, looking at me much like ogling a monkey in a zoo—with amusement and curiosity, perhaps incredulity.

The salesman returned, hiding a grin, and said the manager had given the ok. Looking back, I probably should have offered $25 and let them haggle me up to $35. They knew the Buick wasn’t worth that much.

Just so you know I wasn’t hopelessly naïve, I refused to pay California’s sales tax, saying I’d offered eighty bucks, and that was as high as I would go. I’m still proud of my little rebellion. After much consultation and grumbling about rewriting their paperwork, I signed and drove off—the self-satisfied owner of my very first vehicle.

Stopping at a nearby gas station, I squandered my remaining four dollars (keeping the change, in case a diamond salesman happened by). Then, I took an on-ramp for my first freeway drive, at an exciting 45 mph. Since it was nighttime, traffic was light; consequently, I instigated only two or three pile-ups.

On Monday morning, I hopped in the Buick to head for my first day on the job. Starting the car, I heard a gratifying healthy roar. But when I lifted my foot from the accelerator pedal, the Buick’s engine quit in a huff, maybe a wheeze. I started again, but as soon as my foot vacated the accelerator, the car went on strike. It dawned on me that I’d have to keep the pedal down a long time before the Buick would concede I meant it to run.

While pressing the pedal until my leg cramped, I glanced at the passenger compartment, and saw a hole (!) in the floorboard, about the size of a saucer. In my haste at the auto “stealership,” I’d neglected to inspect the vehicle’s interior. Maybe it didn’t matter. In darkness, I could easily have missed seeing a black hole eyeing the black pavement.

Well, I got to work on time that day. Returning home, I recalled the Buick’s morning stubbornness, and looked around for a solution—something to hold the accelerator pedal down while I did other chores. A decrepit, knee-high block wall fence bordered my parking spot, so I pried loose a cement block. Next question: where to put it until needed? Aha! I could use the block to cover the floorboard hole. Amazing, how resourceful I can be, isn’t it?

The next morning, I started that disreputable Buick, made sure its gearing was in neutral, placed the cement block on its accelerator, and went back into the duplex to shave, shower and dress for work. When I lifted the block, the car dutifully remained alive, and I again used the cement block to cover the hole in the floorboard. You can imagine my pride when finished.

I’m delighted, and amazed, to say the Buick served well for the next two or three years, while I built up savings and a credit record toward purchasing a better vehicle. Once, during that time, Ann (my wife to be someday) asked for a ride to a car repair shop, to pick up her car. She settled gingerly on the Buick’s shabby passenger seat. As we got underway, she looked down, puzzled, noticing the cement block. Ever adaptable, she shifted the block aside to get comfortable—and uncovered the floorboard hole, her eyes wide, watching the street’s pavement rush below. Ann never again asked for a ride in that Buick. Talk about ingratitude.

Before resuming discussion of vehicles, let me divert back to the duplex a moment. It was level with the ground—which was fine since Los Angeles County’s sparse rain never breached the front door’s threshold. But one day, I opened the door and was greeted by the strangest insect I’ve ever seen: bulbous, multicolored, big as my thumb, so alien in appearance the bug might’ve been a visitor from outer space.

My first thought was to squish the thing, but visions of its fluids squirting inside the duplex deterred. Then I considered capturing it and sending the specimen to a university for study. Fact is, though, I didn’t want to go near the strange thing. In the end, I used a broom to propel the insect into foliage beyond the duplex’s entryway.

I’m not sure but suspect the alien bug hurried back to its mothership and warned the leader, “Don’t mess with Earthlings. They have a weapon of many sticks that can fling you to Kingdom Come.” I like to think I saved humankind from alien invasion that day.

~~~~

Having driven the Buick a couple of years, I acquired a sense of competence. Oh sure, I earned my share of traffic citations, run-of-the-mill tickets: for parking on the courthouse steps, speeding through church, driving without a vehicle, but I hadn’t injured anybody, hadn’t killed anybody—though I did scare the hell out of friends and relatives. It was time for me to spread my wings (you see, I’m part wasp—White, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant).

So when my girlfriend, Ann, allowed me to drive her Chevrolet Corvair, I was ready and eager. Her parents planned a camping trip in Yosemite National Park and suggested we caravan with them for the weekend. It was a wonderful visit, only slightly marred when I drove home and needed two tries to park her car. On my first try, I rammed the Corvair into her parent’s house, taking a fine nick out of both. Oh well; nobody’s perfect.

To distract from the damage I’d done to the house and her beloved car, I decided to provide a really, really sophisticated dinner. Consequently, I bought a take-out pizza and bottle of Liebfraumilch. I ask you, what goes better with pizza than white wine? (Don’t answer.)

Now, regarding my driving the Corvair, two points deserve consideration. First, I thought it my duty—nay, my responsibility—to do most of the driving. After all, Ann was—s-h-u-d-d-e-r—a woman driver.

Second—and this I learned many years after we married—Ann had been driving legally since age twelve. In fact, she was routinely double-clutching before I entered high school. That she permitted me to do most of the driving is a testament to her love for me … or to bad judgment.

I drove her Corvair the night we married, but I’d rather not talk about it. We had planned a honeymoon in San Francisco and made airplane reservations for that evening. God played a little joke on us, giving Los Angeles the heaviest fog of the year, grounding our flight. The airline assured us of connections the next day, but we would be unable to spend our wedding night as planned, at the Mark Hopkins in Frisco, where we had reserved a room. (Room! Hah! It was smaller than my duplex’s closet.)

I’m ashamed to admit it, but the stress of having to remember complicated phrases like “I do” combined with disappointment about our delayed airline travel, caused me just a teensy bit of rage, of wrath, of fury. So when we drove off in the Corvair, not knowing where we would go, I grew progressively irritated that a car tailed us. It was driven by my new brother-in-law, accompanied by Ann’s sister.

It seems tailing the newlywed was a tradition in his family. I probably terminated that tradition forever by driving furiously, recklessly, twisting and turning, trying to dislodge them. At one point, the Corvair tilted on its left-side tires, as I made a blind turn at an unexpected cross street, all this in fog so thick I could barely see past the car’s hood. Shortly after that, sanity returned … to the occupants behind, and they let us continue unmolested.

You can easily understand why our marriage lasted so long. If I didn’t end it by killing Ann that night or getting myself imprisoned for hit-and-run, our glorious union must have been ordained by a higher power than Pastor Bob Cannon. Or, to put it another way, God protects fools, drunkards and computer programmers. You can see why I don’t want to talk about the incident.

After owning the Buick for two or three years, I was able to buy a new car … that is, a bank and I were. The least expensive new car available was a Nash Rambler. Even so, it stretched my wallet paper thin. If the car hadn’t been filled with gasoline, I’d probably still be hanging out at a gas station with a forlorn, hungry look.

I didn’t know it at the time (honestly, Ann), but that model of the Nash Rambler was known as a “make-out” vehicle. Its front seats tilted so far back they formed an acceptable bed. When I started signing for the car, I noticed an extra charge for the tilt-back. “I didn’t ask for tilt-back,” I said.

“It’s a standard feature.”

“Then why are you charging me extra?”

The salesperson mumbled something unintelligible.

“You can’t charge me for something I didn’t request.”

After further argument back and forth, temperature increasing, he said through gritted teeth, “If you won’t pay for it, we’ll remove the tilt-back.”

A half-hour later, as I drove off in that Nash, the salesman came running up and handed me two, fairly large brackets. “Here, (under his breath I think he added, ‘you bastard’), you’ll have to install them yourself.”

“But I didn’t request them,” I claimed.

“They come with the car.”

I never did install those brackets. A few years later, I sold the Nash Rambler to a fellow worker, a really sweet girl. She did have them installed, and I’ve wondered about her ever since.

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