The Dream Car.
When I was a 14 year-old, growing up in The Bronx,
there was one thing I wanted more than anything else in the world…
(aside from the angelic Priscilla Weisbach,
who sat in front of me in Miss Tannenbaum’s 6th grade class).
It was a shiny,
brand-new,
Schwinn Tiger bicycle.
5-speed.
Chrome headlight.
In breathtaking “Radiant Red”.…
Actually, any sort of bike would have been O.K.
All of my friends had bikes…
thrillingly zipping around the streets and avenues of The Bronx,
caroming up and down the hills,
bumping along the cobblestones,
weaving in and out of the traffic and the enraged motorists.
It was a thing of beauty…
and danger.
Although my family was firmly entrenched in the working class,
somehow I always felt that I got just about anything I wanted.
Truth is, I never really wanted that much…
but, DAMN, I wanted this bike!
So I made my impassioned pitch to Mom and Dad.
And they rather matter-of-factly responded…“no”. “
NO????
I was surprised.
Actually I was crushed.
I pleaded my case with the classic kids’ defense…
“But all the other kids have one!!”.
Still…
“No”.
My Mom was behind this.
She sensed the perils of “bikes in the City”.
She simply could not subject her precious son to this inevitable danger.
If she only knew what other risky activities her ‘precious baby’ was up to!
I was stunned, heartbroken, inconsolable…until…
my Dad spoke up.
“OK, if you really want a bike that much, we can find you a used one”.
My Mom nudged him rather violently,
“OR…”
he added fatefully…
“We promise to buy you a brand new CAR when you turn 18.”.
My eyes opened wide.
I could barely breathe.
MY OWN CAR!!!!
It was almost too much for a 14 year-old to conceive.
BUT…
that wouldn’t be for another four more, long years.
Could I sacrifice hitting the streets with my posse of bike-riding daredevils today…
for the promise of an actual automobile
in four years???
After a long pause,
attempting to deal with both my present and future self,
I declared…
“OK….I’ll wait”.
My Dad was smugly satisfied.
My Mom, relieved.
Fast forward (or not so fast) to my 18th birthday.
I probably had thought about that promise of a car
for every single day of those four years.
As always…
I had trusted my parents.
And, as always…
they came through.
BIG TIME!!
When most people speak of their first car…
it’s usually a “hand-me-down” from their parents or older sibling
or a “fixer-upper” off the junk heap.
Not for The Forever Kid!
My first car…
the one I was promised…
the one I dreamed of was…
A 1968 Camaro Convertible!!!
Sky blue.
With white racing stripes.
Black “drop-top”.
It even had my initials “RS”, to signify the model “Rally Sport”!!!
I mean…C’mon!!
Does “patience have its virtues”?
Uh, YEAH!
NOTE: I later learned that my grandparents contributed mightily
to financing this fantasy.
When I triumphantly cruised along Grand Avenue,
my Bronx buds,
(many of whom were still riding their beat up bikes),
were rendered even more dumbfounded than usual.
And when I returned to Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan that Fall…
my college crew,
(with their on-their last-leg, barely-mobile VW’s),
were pretty much unbelieving.
Coincidentally (?)…
that very same Fall,
this skinny, mop-topped kid from the Bronx,
somehow became much more attractive to the members of the opposite sex.
Hmmm…
When a magnificent gift, like the RS Camaro is bestowed upon one…
you might imagine that this glorious offering
would be treated with the ultimate care,
kept in a pristine manner,
mollycoddled with love and nurturing.
For me…not so much.
While I loved this car with a passion…
my knowledge of how an automobile actually works was, shall we say…
“somewhat lacking”.
Case in point:
When the Rally Sport began making,
(what I tried in my own way to describe as)
…“a coughing sound”,
the service station attendant questioned the last time I checked the oil?
Which I responded to with my own question,…
“You mean you have to check the oil??”
Over the years, this automotive masterpiece
was subjected to a painfully sad existence.
A succession of nicks,
scratches,
dents,
“bruises”…
and lotsa “coughs” .
Fortunately my girlfriend was from Detroit, “the Motor City”,
so I left the repairs up to her expertise and resources.
But inevitably the RS Camaro could stand no more.
A few years later…
as I was backing up from my Aunt Leah’s driveway in Fairlawn, New Jersey…
I heard a loud, terrifying thud,
followed by a horrific, ghastly sound.
It seemed that the engine had fallen out of my car.
Yes, you read it right…
THE ENGINE HAD FALLEN OUT OF MY CAR!!!!
We called the AAA,
who, while somewhat incredulous about what they were looking at,
towed the car to the nearest body shop.
To this day, I have no idea how an unfathomable disaster like that
could even have occurred??
Somehow the mechanics were able to “reinsert” the engine…
and the wounded Camaro moved…
but not all that well.
I drove the RS Camaro for another couple of years.
But she was never the same.
I believe she never forgave me for the abuse.
I wound up selling the car to a co-worker for $750.
Two weeks later, he drove it into a tree.
The death of a dream.
I so wish that I had that 1968 Rally Sport Camaro Convertible today.
Perhaps being older and wiser,
(well…older),
I would have learned to treat that work of pure genius
in the manner it truly deserved.
Or maybe I should have settled for the Schwinn.
Would love to hear about your first car.
