Last Summer

Last summer I flew out to Kansas to pick up the little 2-seater I've referred to in these writings. Since I have little to recount that's actually happening now, I'll go back and rehash old times. Here is an account of things related to the trip:

The flight took off around 5:40 Monday morning. My brother took me to the airport, I went inside with my one bag, and found the line for US Airways already starting to snake around past the little people-corral they herd you into. Airline ticket agents were calling out, in an urgent tone, asking the passengers on the early flight please to come to the little machines to check in.

I came forward with my flight information I’d printed out on the computer. This is totally hopeless, I thought; standing in front of the little ATM-like machine, I mentally went through the possibilities of what could go wrong:

--I would hit the wrong button, rendering the machine inoperable
--The machine wouldn’t work to begin with—never did.
--Information would flash on the screen identifying me as a terrorist:
“ARREST PASSENGER” would appear in bright red letters, along with a little siren and flashing beacon—to alert security personnel.

None of this happened. In less than five minutes, I’d managed to coax a ticket and boarding pass out of the machine. I was elated.

At the security checkpoint I was bemused to see that the fast line of passengers was taking off its shoes, hurriedly putting them into little plastic bins, shoving them into the security scanner, where personnel on the other end scarcely looked at the images on their screens. Thanks a lot, Richard Reid—you bastard.

On the flight I didn’t talk to anyone, didn’t want to get into anything, was too tired and fraught with anxiety about the whole trip. I didn’t really understand why exactly I was going all the way out to Kansas for this car. It’s true, I’d wanted a convertible for a long time, had even been looking at the Miatas back when they were too expensive for me. But still. Something didn’t feel right about it. For one thing, the car was way too nice for me, a schlub with no garage, a fairly non-pristine driveway to park it in, and a lifestyle that in no way would preserve the shine and overall appearance of the pretty little car. This worried me. And my friends, the parents of the girl for whom I was once a suitor. They too would no doubt be wondering about my motives, my sudden, inexplicable desire to get my hands on this car, to come out briefly and re-insert myself into their lives. We would all be wondering, in our own way, what was up with all that. It’s a miracle I didn’t have a throbbing headache.


But I was on the plane, too late to turn back now. Also, I had pork barbecue to think about, something that had suddenly taken on more importance than the car itself. This is a thing I’d been introduced to a few years back, when this group had taken me out to a local eatery—an institution of sorts—in a neighboring town. The specialty there was “burnt ends,” absolutely delicious pork in barbecue sauce, with beans and fries. One of these servings is enormous, always impossible for me to finish—and the price is around ten dollars. I love the place. It is in Belton, Missouri—just across the state line from Kansas-- and is called Oden’s.

At the airport I was met out front, right on time, by Mel and Dottie, piloting the beautiful new Honda—a symbol of the upper middle class lifestyle they so enjoyed, and of which I am so envious. It is not so much all the material luxury that such a lifestyle can provide, but the insouciance about money, the lack of preoccupation about every little expense, the security of living out a retirement earned by a life well-lived, with a purpose, using the brains that we were all born with, but that some squander and waste, while others carve out a secure place for themselves, knowing that where they have arrived is all due to their own diligence and hard work. Mel and Dottie had pioneered a dance technique that perfected the country two-step in confined spaces. Wildly popular on riverboat cruises, Dottie had been dubbed the “Memphis Queen” from 1973-1975—an honor bestowed on the fastest feet on the Mississippi. Mel, a talented caricature artist, would delight tourists with his retrospective sketches of them in old-style riverboat garb.

We went out to eat later with their neighbors down the street—Marcus and Henriette Fleurluenthler. Marcus, entertaining as ever, told me that he believed cars should not be washed. They’d arrived in an enormous pickup truck, the bright red paint sparkling clean, with not a hint of dirt anywhere. It is one of the magnificent contradictions in this fantasy-world I’d stepped into: The retirees, comfortable with themselves and their lifestyle, could say anything. Words didn’t really mean much—not any more. All of the main activities of life, the ones that had led them to this place in Kansas, had already been accomplished. What sense in talking about washing cars? You just do it, or pay someone to do it for you. It’s a non-issue, something that just happens, no need to overthink it. I paid the check when it came, grateful to my hosts for putting me up at the house, for taking me around and generally entertaining me. But there was more to this act: I wanted to be accepted as a peer, as a solid piece of their social fabric, not as the more usual frayed and tattered edge. I’ve come to Kansas, I wanted to say, and I’m ready to pay my own way. Surprised, they seemed genuinely to enjoy the gesture. I should add that the place—one that they all frequent—is by no means an emporium of haute cuisine. Burgers, fries, the Monday night special—these were all big attractions there, but they did serve beer as well. My burger was actually quite good, and I was able to polish off all of it and the better part of my waffle-cut potatoes as well.

Marcus was retired from his career as a builder of specialized mining equipment; his company’s machines were known for extracting more ore per hour than any others. His competitors often groused about the high-output of the cleverly named “EXTRACTORE,” a machine that was bigger than a medium-sized house. At the time that he left the company, his legacy was certain: Had it not been for Marcus, the EXTRACTORE would not have come to be. Hanging on a wall in his den is a plaque to that effect. Superimposed over an image of the gaping jaws of the machine, are these words:

Certainly not an actor
But our benefactor
Marcus its creator
Gave us the EXTRACTORE!!

The company’s president fancied himself something of a poet, and often would amuse and delight his employees with his clever wordplay.


The next day we hit the Starbucks, just Marcus and Mel and I. I was able to meet the fabulous Monica, object of Marcus’ fantasies, and she spent a scant minute or two chatting as she cleared dishes from a nearby table. Her world is youth, vigor, maybe college classes at the local institution, putting gas in the car, making plans with her boyfriend, other friends to hit the concerts that surely make their way to Kansas City. All of eternity lay before her, the endless green fields of youth, the never-ending sunshine of health and beauty, hours and weeks and months spent just enjoying life and the sense that all things will be forever new and fresh and green.

The three of us sat at the table, the oldsters with the years to show on our faces, our experiences coloring everything we now beheld. Some of us deal with it a little better. I—forever older before I was even old—have not done so well with it, look longingly back at the stuff that youth was supposed to be made of, am pissed-off that I missed out on big parts of it. I want to get some of it back, make a mad grab with a little sports car with a convertible top, put it in high gear and go back in time. Sad, that humanity is full of elation, beauty, the conquest of higher pursuits. And it’s also full of this. I sipped my vanilla latte grande.

Mel and I took out the car later in the day. This was a brilliant, late-summer afternoon, the perfect weather for a ride in a convertible. I drove, and was not too aggressive with the gearbox or getting the engine revs up. Not aware of the car’s superior handling characteristics, I kept the driving to a fairly conservative pace. I am used to piloting slow and sluggish junkers and pedestrian family sedans, conveyances that make no pretense at being anything other than utilitarian. Get the groceries, pick up the kids, run errands, stop by the post office—that kind of thing. I was in a true sports car now, but didn’t yet realize it. That would come later. I mainly liked the way it looked, didn’t understand its performance attributes.

We went to Oden’s, where the barbecue was even better than I’d remembered. The servings being enormous, I took some of mine away to eat on the trip back home. A couple of women in the next booth were enjoying their meal, and Dottie knew one of them from the place where her mother had stayed. They exchanged pleasantries, and at the meal’s end Mel surreptitiously paid their tab. I’m sure they were very surprised and pleased when the news came that their bill had been taken care of.

Shortly after returning home, I exited the car from the garage, drove off in the rain and headed for Maryland. The drive, depending on the route, and the number of switchbacks and detours, is usually around eleven hundred miles.

Following is a brief account of the trip home:

On the way out to the big highway I tried on my new role as a sports car driver, pushing the engine revs a little higher with each shift, hitting the gas a few times between downshifts to sync up the engine speed with the transmission’s, and enjoying the responsiveness of the car—something I hadn’t quite been aware of before.

On the 435, traffic stopped a few miles before the turnoff for the interstate, a backup that lasted maybe twenty minutes or so. Nothing obvious was in the way when things started going again—other than a few large trucks on the roadside that looked to have interesting loads. The weather was mostly grey, with intermittent rain, and the hour looked much later than it was—being only around four in the afternoon. The rain would continue most of the drive, letting up the next day when I awoke in Ohio and finally put the top down.

When I stopped for the night, I was maybe two-hundred miles or so from the West Virginia state line, but too tired to go on. I’d taken a couple of caffeine tablets along the way, at two different times, but they weren’t making me much of a better driver. I thought it best to stop. As I fueled up at a deserted all-night rest area, I asked the young woman inside about local accommodations.

“If you go back to the next exit, there’s tons of hotels there,” she said. “You can go down this little road here and find a hotel, but I’m not too sure about the area,” she added. She pointed in the direction of the little hotel and said, “I live in that area.”

I took her advice and drove back on the interstate to the motel oasis, brightly lit signs signaling rooms for rent from about the height where helicopters hover. I chose a Holiday Inn, wanting to be parked in a safe spot for the night—and there seemed to be no shortage of bright lights here. At two in the morning, the girl behind the desk was in no hurry; the computer screens in front of her—two of them—were thwarting her efforts to rent me a room. She finally got it figured out, gave me a discounted rate offered to Triple A members, and took my credit card. When I got upstairs I didn’t even turn on the tv—a first for me. I brushed my teeth, turned back the bed, and went to sleep. The caffeine tablets had not completely worn off, however—making my slumber a bit jumpy. They should put some kind of warning on these things: “If you plan to go to bed, don’t take these.” Next time I’ll know.

The next morning I awoke around eight, the wake-up call coming from the telephone next to me. There was also an alarm clock, so after the phone rang, I set the alarm for another half-hour and went back to sleep. When I’d showered and gotten cleaned up, I went downstairs to see what kind of breakfast the Holiday Inn had for me. It was a far cry from the offerings in the British version, but I sat down to some deviled eggs, Froot Loops, orange juice, and bacon. As I ate, I listened to some kind of interview taking place behind me. At another table, a good-looking young man was talking to two women who were interested in his qualifications for some position or other. It seemed that maybe they could have reserved a room or business suite for this purpose, but perhaps their company didn’t have that kind of money to throw around. In any case, the young man, earnest and well-spoken, seemed to be interested in being considered for the position, and left them with assurances that he could update his curriculum vitae should they need more information. As he passed, I wanted to stick out my foot, and as he lay sprawled and bewildered on the floor, issue this advice in his ear:

“Run from this place. Get as far from these two women as you can. Make your life on a little farm, with maybe some goats. Eat some cheese. Content yourself with the simple things, find your own way—happiness will come.” Instead, I ate more Froot Loops and watched a cable news program on the television.

Outside the day was beautiful, heating up, turning into a typical late-summer day. I put the car’s top down, wanting to enjoy the main feature I’d bought the thing for. With the insides exposed to the outside air, I felt more inclined to get the engine revs up, to be more liberal with the gas pedal. On the highway the tachometer read an engine speed that—in my own car—would have probably blown up the motor many miles ago. The car ran smoothly and strong, with no hint of being overtaxed.

With a little more of Ohio remaining to be covered, I exited the interstate where the warning signs indicated there would be work ahead. I didn’t want to sit in traffic, watching the scenery crawl by at the rate of a few inches every minute. On U.S. 40 the landscape was an interesting combination of sections of old roadway and abandoned farmhouses and old motels. I stopped at the first farmhouse and took some photos, posing the car this way and that. A little roadside stand stood off to the side of the main road some few hundred feet. I believe that the small section of abandoned roadway that faced the stand was once an original section of the National Road. I could be wrong, but that’s what it looked like to me. It had bricks for paving in places—something that old road builders used at one time.

Further up the road I stopped to buy a drink and a hat. I wanted a visor, like the kind on baseball caps. Although I had many of these hats at home, I didn’t bring any with me. Inside the little gas-stop and convenience store, the clerk was telling a bald customer that she thought men who rode Harleys were sexy. The man indulged her, his day most likely devoted to work, owing to the sight of worn boots, frayed jeans, and a truck outside that was waiting for him to get back to it. He’d carved out a few minutes for some smokes and a drink, and didn’t really have much time for chit-chat.

“I have a little convertible car,” I piped up, hoping to win some points with the store clerk. She sized up the skinny man before her, holding an iced tea and a bright red OHIO baseball cap.

“Oh?” she couldn’t have sounded less interested, but offered, by way of consolation, that these little cars were “cute.”

“Yes, it’s right over there,” I pointed—hoping to keep things going a little bit.

She couldn’t see it, for the simple reason that the tiny automobile was totally obscured by a tremendous pickup with mud-spattered fenders. Even the family minivan, which hadn’t been there before, looked enormous next to the car.
“Will that be all?” she asked. She was actually quite friendly, telling me that she’d just bought a car for her son, even though she seemed quite young herself. Just after buying her son a car, she said her own car blew up, but now she didn’t want a car for herself. If she did get a car for herself, she said, it would be a 1964-1/2 Mustang. I’m not sure what sets that model year apart from the others, these cars all looking pretty much the same to me. I thought it best to be going.

I backed the car out of its space, sandwiched between the enormous pickup and the minivan. The big draw at this little stop appeared to be the sandwich shop just next door, but attached to the convenience store. It was a Subway or something like that. Hungry people were filling up the parking lot.

I’d eaten my leftover barbecue at a little convenience store last night. This is the place where I’d bought some of the caffeine pills and a drink and some chips. At that point I’d planned to just continue straight on through—stopping only for gas and for one last time when I arrived home. I’m glad I didn’t follow this plan. I should note that the tea I bought came in a bottle and was unsweetened. This brand was widely available back home, but horribly sugared, owing no doubt to the taste of most tea-buyers who drink the stuff out of a bottle. I was glad to find this version, although often I buy the one that is sweetened as well. My only complaint is that it was not offered with lemon.

As I drove through this part of Ohio, approaching the easternmost part of the state, I stopped from time to time to look at old machines, some of them in hopeless disrepair, some being picked apart to use anything valuable from their innards—victims of salvage operators who, buzzard like, dismantled and cut the things open with torches, wrenches, jacks and the like. I usually posed the still-sparkling sports car in front of these jumbled backdrops to take a quick photo. Likewise, at a local used-car lot, the specimens on the open air display looking to be one step away from the junkyard, I asked the proprietor if it would be ok to take a quick photo in his lot. His response was quick:

“I don’t care,” he said. He’d been standing near the corner of his office, idly watching the day unfold, the late-summer Ohio sunshine harsh on the dented and well-used offerings parked in neat rows. “Easy Financing,” the sign read. On the sign itself was a depiction of a Mustang from the mid-sixties—painted by a local artist, no doubt. Possibly this was the elusive 1964-1/2 Mustang the young woman who found Harley riders sexy had been seeking out. I took my pictures and left, noticing the man had disappeared from his spot next to the building.

I continued on, finally getting close to the Maryland line. At this point it started raining. Not much at first, just a little. I thought I could continue driving, since I didn’t appear to be getting too wet. Finally I gave in and pulled off the interstate, stopping at the on-ramp to get back on. I got out of the car to fool with the top and get it closed again. It was at this point that I discovered that the little pull-tab on the zipper—the thing you pull to open and close the top, had broken off. I’d closed and opened the top exactly two times: Once before I started the trip, and the other time back in Ohio, to enjoy the sunshine on the remaining part of the journey. After my second try—in Ohio—the little pull tab had decided it had had enough. This was crazy, being asked to zip first one way, then the other. It wanted to put an end to all this indecisiveness, and it did it the only way it knew how. I have to admit, it was pretty effective; in place of the zipper’s tab was a sharp metallic nub, about as friendly as a razor or a shard of glass. The zipper still worked fine, however, and I managed to get the top closed quickly—and without shredding my fingers.

Further down the road, with less than a hundred and fifty miles to go, the weather turned serious. I’d mentally psyched myself up to just continue driving, with no further stops. Now that was impossible, with visibility on the high-speed road limited to about five feet in front of the car. The rain was coming in sheets, the car’s top doing a perfunctory but not thorough job of keeping the insides dry. Small drips came from the same place on both sides, and—hit just right—puddles could come splashing through the side window. It’s my view that these little cars were never really meant to be driven in the rain, that the top is there more or less as an emergency measure, much like the car’s tire-changing tools: Just something to get you back home and to a nice dry garage, where the car could be wiped down and soothed and dried and babied. The people at Mazda didn’t really expect that someone like me would be buying one of their cars. I can’t say I blame them.

I stopped on the roadside, not wanting to venture any further for the time being. Cars pulled off behind me, offering a buffer if someone were to go out of control and start using the breakdown lane as part of the regular roadway. Up ahead was a horse trailer and other cars stopped as well. The traffic still moving along was proceeding at maybe ten to twenty miles per hour. I expected that the rain would move quickly, I would be in the clear if I just waited, so that’s what I did. After about ten minutes I turned back onto the road again. It was still raining, but not as hard. Up ahead two cars had spun out, landing on the grassy area off to the side of the highway. No one appeared to be hurt, and the accident didn’t look too serious.

The next towns came and went: Hancock, Hagerstown, then Frederick. After Frederick, it’s not too far to my house. I drove through the adjoining town—Ellicott City—deciding to rejoin old Route 40 for the last few miles. I often do this, as I think it is more direct and maybe a little faster than staying on I-70 until the end. At least there’s more to look at, with the endless stream of donut shops, muffler stores, and chicken take-out places providing a colorful backdrop. Finally I was home, the little car parked safely in the driveway behind the old pickup truck. I’d made it.