Hydrogen & Stupidity

The Auto Biography

Originally posted October, 2003

1966 Chevolet Impala
The gravel hitting the side of that car came from the girlfriend squealing out of the parking lot. She hadn't expected the car of my red-headed friend, and wasn't going to stick around to ask.

1964 Chevrolet Malibu
Alphonse, the sleek blue demon of the night, has a five-pack of beer dangling from the radio antenna. An effective, but not exactly subtle, cooler.

The 1972 MG
All the guys at the bachelor party have dropped their pants and are mooning their buddy for a photograph. Except for that one fellow who forgot to turn around.

The 1980 Toyota Tercel
She hands over her belt. "I hope you don't mind," she says with a smile, "that I like to be tied up and bitten."

The 1984 Subaru Brat
The absolute pleasure of a cross-country drive with the dog in the back hits an eight-lane traffic jam in Louisville, and the hound hops out to answer nature's call.

The 1989 Toyota Forerunner
By quirk of ridgelines and calendar, the sun set three times that day. The land was saying goodbye. It knew the hikers would not be back.

The 1973 Volkswagen Thing
Come Monday morning, the heavy equipment operator would sure be wondering why someone spray-painted "Fish Sticks" inside his bucket.

The 1988 Toyota Pickup
"Jesus Christ, you're in computers! You can afford a real car!" So said the drunk woman rescued from a bar. And as she added later: "I sure hope my husband isn't home."

* * *

1966 Chevrolet Impala

The times. There's no such thing as ATM cards or 911 operators. The biggest technological advance is not the computer but the blow dryer. Now every woman can look like Farrah Fawcett.

The story. The 16-year-old is working three jobs, including one as a night (sleepover) watchman at a resort, which of course means it's a pool party summer for everyone except the intruders.

The lesson. It doesn't matter if it's innocent. What matters is if it looks bad. And your girlfriend driving up to see you're entertaining a redhead qualifies as looking bad.

The moral. It's safer to juggle chain saws than women.

* * *

The 1964 Chevrolet Malibu

The milieu. Alphonse, the perfect vehicle for late '70s malaise, sees Atlantic City back when slums outnumbered casinos, sees the mountains of West Virginia at the height of eco-slaughter strip mining, sees the Rust Belt move from an abstract concept to a living dying thing. The little putt-putt even successfully snubs its bumper at OPEC when gas soars to the unbelievable price of 59 cents per gallon.

The story. The college kid is chatting up the cop who's giving him a ride back out to the interstate. He'd spent the night in jail but they hadn't towed his car -- until he blew into their stupid machine, he hadn't looked all that tanked. "Bum rap," he keeps saying. "Just a couple of beers."

Unlike the cop from the night before, this one pulls over in front of the car. And hanging from the passenger-side front bumper is a tuft of mud, weeds and grass the size of a beach ball.

"Couple beers, huh?" says the cop.

"Thanks for the ride," the kid replies.

The irony. Fifty miles away, the roomie totals his car while delivering pizzas. Like mature adults, they frame the tickets side-by-side and put them on the mantle.

The lesson. Just no sport in drinking and driving.

* * *

The 1972 MG

The times. The world reels as John Lennon is senselessly murdered. On the very same day, a terrific French writer named Romain Gary romantically commits suicide because there is no life without love, and there can be no love without his late wife. His timing assures him of one of the least-noticed obits of all time.

The import. This English, busted-down bucket of bolts ran like a dog, threw oil like a geyser and smelled like the aftermath of a Neil Young concert—yet somehow always managed to find its way home. The folly of buying a car built by the British remained hidden until James Bond himself broke down and started driving a Beamer.

The story. The mooning photograph where the one fellow forgot to turn around was a mere warmup at this party where the keg of beer was wheeled around in a grocery cart. Things were fun until e broke our buddy's wrist by heaving him down a steep embankment into six inches of water.

The lesson. Forgiveness is divine.

* * *

The 1980 Toyota Tercel

The music. "Come on Eileen" becomes the prototypical '80s pop song.

The story. If she told you she wanted to be tied up and bitten, wouldn't it be impolite not to?

The insight. The Police song "Every breath you take" is not about romance, it's about stalking. An insecure man would suspect the bartender is dropping a hint.

The crime. The bicycle, a twisted mess of wreckage from a high-speed encounter with a railroad track, gets thrown in the back seat to be taken to the shop. During a short stop along the way, some perp smashes the back window and steals the bike. Owner returns to scene and laughs out loud when he imagines the sight of the wobbly, rattling getaway. Cracked ribs means the laugh hurts, but then again, lots of laughs do.

The moral Be careful what you wish for. You might just get it.

* * *

The 1984 Subaru Brat

The music. I think I'm turning Japanese, I think I think so.

The import. This trucklet, by sticking two seats in the back, became a car in terms of import quotas, and thus became an ironic footnote to trade wars with the Japanese. The seats, which came with built-in joystick-style handles, got cut out and converted into a rocking campifre La-Z-Boy loveseat for two.

The dog. Tonka, the grease-sucking whore of the Ozarks, did indeed hop out in the middle of a traffic jam just beginning to resume moving forward. In more proof that this was one of the planet's finest-ever hounds, four lanes of drivers who finally had a chance to move sat on their brakes until the dignified old bitch had finished her business.

The bad news. This started out as the wife's car, or, more specifically, the soon-to-be-ex-wife's car.

The lesson. It's a cold bowl of chili when your love goes away.

The cause of death. A rusted frame—so fragile the trucklet fell apart on a garage lift-rack and was essentially shovelled out the door. Insidious cancer cut down a magnificent four-wheeler on its way to a quarter million miles.

The bar. Absolute reliability (not a single breakdown and only one case of getting the spry off-roader hopelessly stuck) at a list price that worked out to $763 per year owned. That's like a car payment of $63.59 per month.

* * *

The 1989 Toyota Forerunner

The times. President George Bush, fresh off Desert Storm, will be unbeatable in the next election.

The rock. A hawk's dive down Virginia Route 56 from the Blue Ridge Parkway lies the most beautiful spot on the planet. This is pertinent because the land was thanking the two hikers and saying goodbye. Totally Native American, totally California treehugger, totally chilling and totally true. Neither said a word on the way home. It was a portent of something but we weren't exactly sure what. The earthquake wouldn't hit for another month.

The irony. Another footnote in trade war history. This Japanese truck was built in Kentucky.

The quote. Drinking at Booche's, an old-style pool hall complete with burgers served on wax paper, in Columbia, Mo. Trading philosophies with quite possibly the most intelligent person ever met. "Never confuse what I do with who I am," he declared. Sensible enough answer from a thinker turned fisherman in Alaska. In a matter of months, he will be leading The Mosquito Fleet in an effort to save a hatchery from the Exxon Valdez disaster. He'll succeed, too.

* * *

The 1973 VW Thing

The premise. You are what you drive.

The impetus. "You've heard about how you can tell things about people by their cars? Well, I've never met anybody—anybody!— that fits their car like you and your Thing."

The question. Is this a compliment?

The insight. VW's official website, in explaining the market failure of the Type 181, the civilian version of the Wehrmacht's jeep: "The American market failed to appreciate its Spartan nature."

The effect. This fun machine reduced all riders to 12-year-olds -- from standing up like it's a roller coaster to painting non-sequitor grafitti in harmless places.

The comeuppance. Trying to flirt the beautifully voiced redhead into taking a ride in the ultimate convertible, and moments later, cringing when she pulls up next to the Thing in a totally scorching black Miata.

The moment. Driving through the classy front gates of the blueblood Country Club of Virginia. It would have looked more at home parked with the golf carts.

The reductionist. Take off top, windows, doors, windshield as desired. Look like you're going through life with the windows rolled down. Not a bad rule to live by.

* * *

The 1988 Toyota Pickup

The crime. This magnificently maintained classic was stolen out of a driveway while the owner was inside his expansive farm home.

The good news. Truck is found abandoned in the woods four months later.

The bad news. The perp left the windows rolled down.

The offer. "Insurance has already paid off, willing to sell it back. You want it?"

The clincher. "You might have a better chance of going on a date if you had a car with a heater."

The moral. Always pay cash in full. It's the financial equivalent of never telling a lie.

The discovery. The dude was right about the heater.

2017 Update: The indestructible Toyota pickup made it to 326,000 miles and would still be going today if the author hadn't totalled it in September, 2015.

* * *

Mr. Marshall, who speaks in the third person when leaving lively kickers at the end of columns, once noticed that many, many Playmates of the Month have a thing for hot cars, and it's always made him wonder what that has to do with wanting to pose naked for strangers.