So
this may seem a bit out of character, but it turns out I’m something of a
gearhead. And I don’t mean just “Oo, I like a nice car.” No, I mean, I have a
very specific idea of what comprises good design—sleek lines, primarily—and I
can do things lots of other women do not dabble in. I do very good body work
and I can also fix the engine. I’m not just talking air filter, here. I’m
talking the engine, where you need
hefty tools, muscles, and the willingness to get dirty. Because I’m always
convinced that as long as I have decent directions, over the phone or the web,
that I can tackle anything. So if something is wrong with the car and I’m
stranded, then I’ll fix it.
But
I digress. I’ve always had an affinity for design-y things. Architecture way
before I ever began writing about it.
Car design, fashion design. Just design.
At 19, cars and fashion were in hot competition with each other in my mind. If
I was going to compromise and go to a regular college rather than fashion
school—in New York, no less—then I darned well was going to have a nice car. I
immediately decided that a Jag E-type cabriolet was the ticket and I found one
actually quite near where my folks lived, Azusa of all places, known primarily
for its fondness for muscle cars. But you just never know what kind of gems you’ll find in the most unlikely places, right?
So I called and I guess my voice shouted “Red alert! Red alert! She’s young!
And she might sue you if her parents are litigious people!” Which
unfortunately, they were and are.
So
the guy asks, “Umm, how old are you?”
Being naïve, I told the truth. “Do your parents know that you’re calling
about this car?” Yes, I replied, a bit hesitantly. After all, my parents shared
that same naivete. My mom because she’s an immigrant and my dad because he led
a very sheltered life growing up in Sacramento in the shadow of the Exclusion
Acts which his plethora of advanced degrees did nothing to curb. “Well, I don’t think your parents would approve of this car. I think you should probably look for a
different car.” Click. He hung up!
Can you believe it? He was rejecting $3000 because of his conscience? Wonders will never cease.
So,
having done my research, I promptly settled upon an equally sensible car: the
Alfa Romeo Spider. No, not those newer, 90’s ones, either, I meant an old one.
Heavy. With that nice real wooden driving wheel. And hey, it was half that of that Jag, so my parents
ought to be happy, right?
They
were. I mean, they weren’t, but you know. I’d chosen. I needed wheels all the
way over in Westwood and they weren’t about to lend me one of their cars.
Of
course, the thing was a stick. Unlike most kids my age, I had literally gotten
my license a few months earlier, long after I turned 18. And I had no idea how
to drive a stick. But hey, no problem, I’m thinking. I’ll just teach myself.
Auto-didacticism is, as you may glean, something of a thing for me. Just as a
tip, it does not work for, say,
learning Chinese. No. You may build up your penmanship—mine’s excellent—but it
doesn’t do a whole lot for the grammar-and-accent thing. *Ahem*
So
anyway, there I am thinking, hey, no problem, I’ll just teach myself how to drive
a stick.
Boy,
did I. I kept being told by my roommates, “Don’t worry, I’ll take you out and
show you.” Of course, they never did. Too busy trying to get laid by the
mid-tier frat brothers they were “little sisters” to. I mean, why the heck call
them that? Why not just call them “Convenient for sex” and be done with it?
So
I understood the principle of the thing: step on the clutch, move the stick,
let foot off clutch and step on gas. Who knew
it took coordination? The first time I took it out, I was driving around Santa
Monica and making a left turn onto this street called Ocean Ave. There weren’t
that many people around, but the ones who were out all seemed to be behind me.
I’ve got the top down, it’s evening, and I hear this woman shouting at me, “Park
it or drive it!”
Needless
to say the results were that I went lurching my way down the street, simultaneously
panicking and cursing at her.
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