Cars

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. 

The thing about that car, and what was not revealed by the previous owner, was that there was something seriously wrong with that steering column. I mean seriously. Because I’d be driving along happy as a smug clam and then I’d have to stop—pesky stoplights—and when I’d shift into first at the green light, my car would start whaling left and right. The steering wheel had absolutely no connection to the wheels. None. Well, fortunately, nothing happened. Each time it happened. 

Basically, I spent the next month and a half skidding and weaving all over Westwood, which come to think of it wasn’t all bad. For one, when I drove on the freeway, and I will never, ever forget this, the transition between the 405 south and 10 west, it’s just this lovely curve and the Alfa simply purred along that stretch. 5^th gear was made for those kinds of roads. Ahhh. 

But there were those “other” times when she didn’t behave. I named her Stella, by the way. After all, there were those annoying fraternities with their stupid Greek letters painted on the streets. Isn’t that public property and shouldn’t stupidity be limited to your own property? Well, silly me, that’s what I thought at the time. Thus the one time I was inopportunely stopped on a hill right over a set of Greek letters for the corresponding frat house to my right, was it really my fault that when I finally put the car in gear, I skidded all over it? Really? I don’t think so. 

Until something did happen. I lived in one of those college complexes in Westwood that they have in every college town: filled with just-matriculated-from-the-dorms kids who still think people are going to clean up the barf in the hallways but no one ever does. The  underground parking was two levels of absolute beaters, thank god. So I go down, all set to probably do something really important like go to the Century City mall for shoes and I get in the car on the lower level. I ease back out and put it in first gear as I turn up towards the first level and the car again starts weaving left and right. Fortunately, I just hold on like I’m skidding on ice, but it’s definitely touch and go because there are those walls on either side.

Happy to escape that fate because like I said, I was on an important mission, I exited the lot and headed towards Veteran Ave. Now, in case you didn’t know, Westwood is bordered by a very very large VA cemetery that’s been a stand-in for Arlington National Cemetery in lots and lots of films. In fact, they are always, always, always filming around Westwood and UCLA because the school is full of greedy sluts who do nothing to help the rising costs of tuition. Oh, excuse me, this isn’t supposed to be a political commentary. *Clears throat*

To continue, I’m on Levering and turning left onto Veteran. The street is lined with parked cars with the headstones just visible beyond. And my car decides, “Hey, okay, thought you got out of that scrape just a minute before? Not so fast! How about another one?” In second gear, mind, I am turning left and my car is about to show me what’s what: that when my life flashes before my eyes at 19, the only thing that will flash is, “Oh my god! I’m going to die and all I’m leaving behind are my shoes!!!”

You see, this time, I wasn’t going to get out of the skidding unscathed. Or, more importantly, my car wasn’t. It had espied the absolute last Pinto existent on this green earth and made a beeline for the gas tank. That’s right. I thought that I was going to explode in a spectacular hail of fire and that all I would leave for posterity was my shoe collection. As an aside, I am rather obsessed with shoes. I justified it by telling myself walking up and down the hills in Westwood to campus aggravated my bunions. Therefore, I required a copious selection of shoes in order to offset the irritation a single pair might give me. It didn’t, and still doesn’t work, but I don’t have that problem anymore and I do have a lovely shoe collection. *Happy sigh* 

Anyway, there I am, watching as the nose of my beautiful, heavy Spider is headed directly for that gas tank. Did I mention that I kept thinking, “Oh my god! I’m going to die!” Followed by the shoe thing? 

Well, I didn’t die. But after that, I was told I needed to choose a sensible car. The Accord. As an aside, Honda gets all the best designers out of Art Center’s industrial design program, so I was happy with the rice ride but some woman wasn’t so she ran a red light and slammed into my driver’s side in Downtown LA.

Soooo, next time, I decided on the Sterling. Bond, James Bond. No, really, I had no idea about that ad. But I did get a lot of nice treatment around town driving it. Being a young thing and all. It drove like a dream. Not quite the sports car dream, but hey, it was essentially a Legend with a better body, so I was not complaining. Thing is, there were some serious issues with that car as well. That is absolutely not my fault, but I know way too much about cars and the Lucas electrical system is notoriously faulty. Those Brits. That and colonialism.

Did I mention that this was not my fault. Okay, maybe a teensy bit. I had dropped off my husband to this repair shop in Santa Monica—we were already in the Palisades at the time—to pick up his car. It was early and he was still in grad school at UCLA at the time and I think he had to go to campus or something. I think. Actually, I have no idea why I was in my pajamas. None. But I was. 

Which means that I dropped him off and planned on returning immediately to our apartment and change. Or maybe just go back to bed—it must have been morning. And my pj’s were pretty ratty. Some workout shorts and a Pooh tee. Not exactly glamorous fare. So I’m working my way up Temescal Canyon and half way up the hill, my car starts smoking. Damn! I think. Ok, come on, girl, just get me to our place, it’s a quarter of a mile away. I make it to Sunset and turn left and start heading up the hill towards El Medio and the thing is really smoking. Pouring out of the hood. 

I’m stopped at the light and this woman in a Benz on my left opens her window, leans over and shouts at me in a very irritated, older white woman voice, “Get outta there!” Jackass. No, she didn’t say the last part, but she might as well have.

Crap. I’m in my pajamas and what’s more, they aren’t presentable. Not like it’s some kick ass cute outfit and no, I don’t mean that kind, I mean, you know, just some ensemble that matches, say. Then I see flames. Now it’s a big DAMN, I gotta get out of the car. Crap. I look like crap. Yes, shallow to the very end, this is what I’m thinking. And here you thought I was all deep and principled.

What I’m hoping is that my husband will show up soon after me and he’ll pick me up so I don’t have to wait by the thing. On the sidewalk. In my pj’s.

Well, here’s the thing. I drive rather, um, aggressively. There’s a couple of, how shall I say, characteristics I have noticed about East Asian-American drivers. They are different from just plain old East Asian nationals. For some reason, those people do not know how to drive once they immigrate here. But at their home countries, they drive like the dickens. I am convinced that every single time we go to either Beijing or Hong Kong, and we used to go every year, I get gray hairs from sitting in their taxis. I mean, I read they’ve got more luxury cars than any other country except perhaps UAE or something. And yet, here, they’re rockin’ their Benzes at like, 10 mph. What the hell is what I wonder.

It’s different with us hyphenated folk. Identity issues. Racism. Inevitably people use their cars as a proxy for real agency. Now, being a tad more conscious and conscientious then the next As-Am (that’s pronounced ayj-am by the way) with some social issues, I am not a complete asshole when I drive. I’m not. But I am somewhat aggressive. Carefully so, meaning that I am cognizant of where everyone is around me and on occasion, I’ve been known to weave in an out a bit. But I never, ever tailgate nor am I jerk. Just sort of, well, controlling. 

My honey does not drive like that. Like me. Meaning that he was taking his own sweet time driving a scant 2-3 miles for lord knows how long. 

I finally get out of the car and I am standing  there feeling really, let’s see, what is the word I’m looking for? Oh, yeah, stupid. He doesn’t show up after three light changes and I decide I’m going home and waiting for him there. At least I won’t be stared at. Because if there is one thing I hate, it’s the idea of being ogled for being a bonehead. And I felt distinctly boneheaded that day.

I run home and promptly change into something more presentable. Then I call my honey and inform him of the problem. Then I call Triple A. One must have one’s priorities straight during moments of crisis. I have no idea why, but I waited for him to return home and then I walked back up Sunset.

Now, here’s another thing. I hate people who cause backups and accidents because in LA, I’m not sure if D.C. or Maryland is like this, but in L.A., it’s always because someone was an asshole. Always. It’s not like Boston where they just don’t know how to drive and list to starboard for miles on end. No, it’s because everyone is convinced s/he is some race car driver even if they’re driving beaters or whatever. It’s annoying.

So I saw a backup on Sunset going the opposite direction and immediately I thought, Uh oh, who’s the asshole? I walk closer to the intersection of El Medio and Sunset, right next to Pali High and as I get closer, I realize a few things. 

First, it turns out I’m the asshole—oh Goody! In my concern for my sartorial, what’s the antonym for splendor?, I forgot to put on the handbrake. Yeah. Sorta key with a stick shift, right? Evidently the car caught on fire. Conflagration of impressive proportions for the Palisades. So, while its on fire, it rolls backwards, over the median and blocks oncoming traffic. Fortunately, the firemen, who have a station up the street, just happened to be driving along—they go to PCH every day for their morning workouts on the beach—and one of the men literally bounded out of the truck, caught up with my car as it was rolling backwards, opened the car door and guided it to the opposite side of the street. Then pulled the handbrake. And then after this heroic feat, they all put out the fire.

Can you believe no one was hurt? Again? And so you ask, where were you when all this was happening? Getting changed. Obviously. 

After the heroic fireman told me the story, I stood well away from the Sunset sidewalk, on El Medio. I didn’t want anyone to think I was that bonehead/asshole. Of course, no one else was standing anywhere near this mess so I guess it was kind of obvious whose car it was. *Cough* 

So you see, me and cars. It’s like I have this thing with cars. Someone called it a deathwish, but I don’t think that’s fair. I think really it’s that I’m meant to get that Jag E-type and I won’t have luck until then. 

Actually, the Volvo is kinda great. It’s got an awesome turning radius. And since it’s a Volvo, no one bats a lash when I rock the Barbara Kruger “Don’t Be A Jerk” sticker. In fact, people smile at me all over town, especially in that hipster zone called Silverlake. Did I mention the sticker? They know I’m not talking about them.

So there you are. I would be loyal to my cars if they would let me. But that E-type…