Does the Car Make the Woman?Oct 03, 2005

US

P.L. Elliott

My very first car was a Fiat 850 Sports Spider, a bright, “go-fast” shade of red convertible.  Though technically a two seater, when the top was down it would actually fit six.  With two in the well behind the two front seats, two sitting up on the back shelf, we’d sail, zipping down Lakeshore Drive, doing our own stunt work in a late night chase, veering away from hooligans who took note of us on Outer Drive. 

And six free-spirited young girls, close friends all - independent, making our own money and our own mistakes - long hair streaming in the convertible-whipped wind, never having known a time when there was not a “Pill,” got chased, believe me.

Months later, when I’m making a homeward escape from war-time Norfolk, VA, that car broke down in amazing ways, stranding me over and over again, up the eastern seaboard.  I was all of nineteen, alone, and with the grand sum of $200 in my purse to carry me through to my home outside of Chicago.

“McArthur’s Park” was screaming in the dark, as the Fiat suffered its first spastic breakdown.  In fact, it may well have been breaking down a little earlier, but my attention had been focused on the song.  It was a very long song.  There on the side of the road sat I, with but a herd of deer to keep me company on the 2:00 a.m. roadside, praying for someone to come along; praying no one would come along.

A massive refrigerated semi-truck, packed with frozen chickens bound from Florida to Pennsylvania, did come along, and, earning my eternal gratitude, the friendly driver dropped me off at a gas station-slash-auto repair, where I awaited its 6:00 a.m. opening.  Then I awaited the arrival of the tow truck driver, with my Fiat in tow. 

Following a perfunctory glance under the hood, with the twisting of caps, tightening of belts, voodoo chants, what I suspect was purely an exercise meant to impress upon me the fact they’d made an effort, it was determined that the project was beyond their more “domestic” skills (translation:  “We have no metric tools").

It was their hope enough had been done on the Fiat to make it possible for me to ever-so-gently ease the car along until I reached the “real” auto repair place ("Yes, we have metric tools").  Under no circumstances was I to stop, as the odds of getting the car restarted were astronomically against this happening.

On a small, seemingly deserted road, breezing along at a mind-numbing twenty mph, the Fiat’s top speed at this point, I watched as if in a nightmare, as a man, exiting the only building visible for miles - a tavern - pulled out of the parking lot and rammed right into my front left quarter panel. His claim of my “speeding” was easily rejected by the fact there were no skid marks from my stopping. It just so happens, getting stopped is easily achieved in a car that’s dying to do so on its own, anyway.

Yet again I found myself on the side of a road in need of a ride.  This time the policeman called to the scene of the accident took me to the “real” auto repair place.  The auto shop was actually owned and operated by a prison and used to train inmates, providing useful skills which would then enhance their opportunities for a successful return to society.

On our way to the repair shop, the policeman noted points of interest as we drove by, my own personal travel guide.  So it was I was able to view the Gettysburg battlefield, the scene so lovely on that sunny morning, it was impossible to call up the heinous and vicious slaughter brought down one brother upon another that occurred there.  In the blink of an eye, it was gone - the death and dying, the scene now serene, as we sped along on our way to town.

The shop was a busy, noisy place and yet I was again granted special privileges not deserved, as the Fiat was hauled in and groups huddled over the machine, lost in its complexity, but fueled by determination.  I was in that shop over eight hours that day, and the cheer that the men sent up as the car, with me at the wheel, exited under its own power, was heartfelt, genuine, relieved. 

Good people abound.  If nothing else my struggles to reach home had verified what I’d believed to be true, but for which I’d had no real proof.  For I’d met many, many people, every one of whom could have easily taken advantage of a naive nineteen-year-old girl; not one of them made such an attempt.

When I finally conceded defeat, I was on a two-lane road at the top of the tallest mountain in Pennsylvania.  There, behind me as far as I could see, crawled a lane of lights belonging to the traffic stacked up, thanks to my ten mph creeping Fiat.  What should have been an eight hour trip was now in its forty-eighth hour, and I wasn’t even halfway to my destination.

In those forty-eight hours, I was towed three times, run into, slept on the cot in a prison-run mechanic’s office, had three different auto repair shops spending hours trying to figure out what was wrong with that car. 

Undoubtedly the most bizarre event occurred the second evening, while I was on a gas station phone, checking in with my family.  As I watched from the phone booth, a pair of auto enthusiasts, two sharp young men who had driven up in their Cord replica, disappeared under the hood of the Fiat.  Then, to my amazement, the two hopped into the Fiat and sped off into the night. And they’d left me their Cord! There was a God!

They came back, reclaimed their car, the Fiat inched on.

By the time I arrived in Johnstown - and the decision to cease the insanity of this horrendous road trip - I had $100 of my original $200 remaining; all of this expensive work had been done on my car for next to nothing.  There was apparently something about a young, slender, long-haired blonde in despair that brought out the knights in shining armor. 

Or was it out of their sense of pity and guilt, knowing that what work they’d done was not going to really make much of a difference, in the long run, that kept them from charging me much more?  I’ll never know; nor does it matter.

I took a pass on the idea of continuing to Chicago, and instead bought a bus ticket for the trip back to Virginia. A trip that provided its own noteworthy adventure, but not one I’m going into right now.

As it turned out, the Fiat had a cracked engine block, and nothing anyone had been attempting to fix during those fateful, wasted days could have helped.  I’d had that car for less than a year and it was officially useless. Funny, though, I’d named the Fiat “HoJo” after the cola drink they served at Howard Johnson’s.

Appropriate.  It was godawful, too!