Tales From Exit 22 by Al Batt

After years of scrimping and saving, I told my wife the good news.

“Honey, we’ve finally saved enough money to buy what we started saving for back in 1986.”

“You mean a brand-new Cadillac?” she asked optimistically.

“No,” I replied, “A 1986 Cadillac.”

I loved my old car, a model no longer manufactured. I called it Harold Stassen. That’s because I knew it was going to run. Stassen was the 25th governor of Minnesota (1939-1943) who ran for the presidency 10 times and also sought numerous other political offices.

My car had been a gentle, faithful friend. Bumpers were still in place and all the doors were the same color, but the miles had overwhelmed it.

A luxury car shot past me on Interstate 80. He was driving 80 and more. The license plate on the car read, PD4BYME. The driver was a young fellow. When I was his age, I drove a car, with doors of three colors, that was held together by baling wire and high hopes, but it was paid for by me, too.

Jean Shepherd said, “Some men are Baptists, others are Catholics. My father was an Oldsmobile man.”

Determining which car is your make of choice is like deciding which TV news you’re going to believe. It’s a big decision, as it’s hard for a man to change his mind. There is no trade-in value.

Fortunately, I’m targeted by advertisers who know more about me than I do.

I drove the make I did because friends owned a dealership. I bought what they offered. They sold the dealership, which freed me to sample cars of other makes. I’m a “Consumer Reports” junkie and looked at the cars rated highly in that periodical.

I test drove a Toyota Prius.

Who said, “What a cool Prius”?

Nobody.

That said, a Prius driver could pull up to a gas pump and say to a fellow customer, “I’ll be just a minute.”

We’re obsessed with cars, driving, traffic, highway construction and other drivers. Especially those who don’t signal because everyone should know where they are turning. And the motorist behind us who blares his horn because someone let a pedestrian finish crossing. He believes everything is legal if he honks his horn and that brakes are the coward’s pedal.

It’s a mammalian trait. When shown a yellow light, nine out of 10 lab rats preferred the gas pedal to the brake pedal. We find fault with drivers who do what we were about to do or just did.

Automakers should capitalize on the press they have been getting and introduce a model named Recall. There was a time when we recalled cars fondly, but now more cars are recalled than sold. Even The Little Engine That Could was recalled.

Early me tried out cars that broke down with a vengeful regularity. Tow trucks tailed me. I drove pre-owned automobiles that hadn’t been used gently. Some had dents enough to have been a percussion instrument or a demolition derby winner and carried so much rust that drivers needed tetanus shots. I once piloted a car with shock absorbers so bad that for every mile I drove, I covered three miles up and down.

If I’d have asked to test drive a new car in those days, both the salesman and I would have laughed ourselves into wearing adult diapers.

I test drove a luxury car recently. Instead of producing an undignified beep when I neglected to close a door or fasten a seat belt, it made a sound as if it were clearing its throat discreetly. I didn’t drive the car so much as captain it.

I looked at a form-fitting Smart car. I waited for it to say something smart, but it didn’t. I hoped it’d be smart enough to finance itself, but it wasn’t. I saw a Smart car taxi in Europe. It had room for one passenger.

I drove a hybrid. It ran on gas until it sensed guilt and then switched to electric.

I wanted basic transportation, but I already had feet.

Whatever happened to vinyl roofs on cars? There isn’t an app that will change a roof to vinyl.

I brought along my tools for car shopping — naiveté and incompetence.

I don’t know what cars are worth, but I know how much they cost. I searched for a leprechaun driving a Smart car with a pot of gold riding shotgun. A car costs a hefty sum, enough to keep a fellow strapped without a seat belt.

I bought a car anyway.

 

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.