Image and Illusion -The cars we drive

Coming home from the dentist today I passed a shining black 1950 Studebaker, parked on the side of the road. One of the local exterminator outfits uses vintage cars as an advertising gimmick and this one caught my eye, and triggered a recall of an event of almost 50 years ago.

My wife had acquired such a vehicle, in 1961, a clunker, but our second car for perhaps $25 or 30 bucks, so as not to be isolated in the house with 2 kids while I was at work. Unfortunately I frequently had to give her the use of the better vehicle (whatever that was ) while I drove the powder blue Studebaker clunker to the office. I minded only a little, although our accountant had advised “if you drove a Cadillac so would most of your clients,” not a subtle hint that my wheels were not good for business.

Nevertheless one bright morning, while stopped for a red light, a lawyer of my acquaintance pulled up along side, nodded hello and in response to his passenger’s query said I was a new lawyer in town. Eying my ride disparagingly, the passenger said, “Gee he must be honest.” The comment chilled me although to this day I cannot figure out why being thought to be honest was a source of great embarrassment. I was young and I guess I figured as a young professional I should have been ensconced in a more elegant, pricey vehicle, a material badge of economic success. Yet here I was in a powder blue, 11 year old clunker, arguably on of the ugliest cars Studebaker ever made, frantic for the light to change.

Later that year I changed to a 544 Volvo, the little turtle back model, looking something like a VW beetle on steroids. It was really an econobox but with a rugged, almost sporty quality about it and I thought - image wise- it tended to compensate for my receding hairline. Another cherished illusion.

Meanwhile my partners drove Mercedes and trendy GM convertibles. Trading up to a more recent Volvo did little for my image but it at least had a European road car posture, twin S U carburetor’s, fog lamps and a good suspension system. I still hadn’t gotten the message and parking lot attendants tended to leave me in the back 40 where I had to fend for myself, after closing time, fishing on a pegboard for my keys and ruining a perfectly good pair of imported Swiss made Bally loafers as I sloshed through the wet grass to retrieve my vehicle.

Finally, I acquired an elegant, new, sand colored Buick Rivera, all the rage that season which gave me the illusion, if not the reality of success. True, it was only a long term rental but gave me a rung up on the prestige ladder of phony hallmarks of success which so dominated the community at the time. But- it was not to last. After my second divorce, and a downward spiral in my personal fortunes, there came the day when I first surrendered the key to my studio to the realtor who handled the sale, then the key to my office to my ex-partner who had voted me out of the firm, and lastly the key to the car rental agency upon surrender of the Rivera. I was left with that most frightening image of rejection; an empty key chain, an unambiguous symbol of total failure, no where to go, no door to lock against the world. I was truly alone.

I flew to Washington and after a few months of job shopping (in the midst of what the government agencies called a hiring freeze) I finally was hired by the Agency for International Development. I acquired a small apartment near the office and bought a used Alfa Romero GTV, a small elegant Italian speedster, with panache and style, a perfect counter point for my new pose as an international lawyer and diplomat. (Will it never cease ?) It set my style around D.C. and went well with my new tweeds and velour Tyrolean hat, (which covered my hairline) and I thought gave me the image of a lesser, impoverished , Italian nobleman. (At least nobly impoverished.) I sold the Alfa and went to Vietnam.

In Vietnam, I now had to be content with a new kind of vehicular absurdity. To appear low profiled, but avoiding traffic difficulties, most of staff, USAID and Embassy tooled around town in chauffeur-driven Ford Falcons. A greater absurdity could not be imagined. My driver, Ong Chau, would never have qualified as a sidekick for the Green Hornet, but, oh well ! Enough.

On my return to the states and in a near Watergate apartment, in an unthinking moment I acquired an old Mark X Jaguar, replete with two locking gas tanks and pull out tables in the rear. While my kids were for a time delighted with this English relic (I was doing an imitation of Rex Harrison with my new Irish tweed hat ) but the beast was a mistake and I soon traded (at quite a loss) for another Alfa Romero GTV - my first love. It served me well in and around D.C. and its environs but when I moved to Key West and could not find a mechanic worthy of the name who knew how to service SPICA fuel injectors. My little Milanese miracle slowly faded and I was forced to trade away for a (gasp) Toyota - which proved dependable if not stylish.

Hired finally by the County I was given a new Ford Crown Victoria, large, sturdy, taken for a police cruiser at a distance. All in all a comfortable, non-controversial choice for a new bureaucrat desirous of keeping a low profile. But the damn thing performed well and I kept it after we left the keys.

Finally, at the 100,000 mile mark, Becky persuaded me to trade the Crown Vic before it fell apart and we settled on a 2000 model Mercury Grand Marquis, a near twin to the Victoria, but a bit more finish. I had finally dropped into the middle of the middle class motoring public, driving a car indistinguishable from the other Grand Marquis made between 1998 and 2010, varying only slightly in detail of tail light configuration and wheel cover designs. Lost at last in a sea of Detroit iron and glass. The silent (no invisible) majority.

No panache, no status, no style yet when I view it across the street or down the parking lot damn but it looks as neat and elegant as when it was brand new. So much for image and illusion.