Living Out Loud: : The Car Family

At my family gatherings, we each drive separately, even when coming from the same house.

We park cars in a haphazard, machine maze. Vehicles overflow driveways, spilling into the street. The official game involves bragging and blocking each other in. More blocks equal more points.

We are a “car family.” It’s beyond transportation. It’s personal.

My grandfather began with washing cars, then sales, eventually owning a dealership. Then my three uncles took over.

Over the years, they’ve run numerous car joints, and when one married a “car woman” our family automobile tree exploded into every make and model. At most showrooms, we are lurking.

Ask her. Grandma’s favorite Kings Island ride is The Beast, and she drove like a beast until she was 87. Even then, she turned cul-de-sacs into drag strips. At 89, she’s the undisputed family driving legend.

As kids, visiting the dealership, my older brother and I would “play drive” demos, receiving royal treatment. Salesmen said we were lucky we resembled our Mom, ha, ha, slamming Dad as usual. (Compliments always came out as sarcastic jokes).

Even today, I chuckle at the sound of new wheels squeaking across service center floors.

At 14, I worked for the uncles until they traded me to my aunt’s limousine company. For six years, I was the company “go-fer.”

Sometimes, errands were exciting, like driving Porsches or delivering messages to Riverbend. One time, I answered the phone and heard, “Hi, James from Metallica here. I’m at the hotel.” Mostly, I handled lunch.

You’d think that this love of transportation would mean that the “kids” (my adult cousins and me) would drive Batmobiles. Nope. Instead, we have the “drive it to the death, make sure you get all the use outta it” mentality.

Money’s not the issue. We’re talking lifespan.

My brother’s first car was a maroon Oldsmobile Calais (“Oldsie”) with a rockin’ Alpine stereo. Teenage bro proved it, cranking up Jethro Tull so loud it shook Oldsie’s seats, scaring the crap out of me.

When I inherited him, the driver’s side door was smashed shut. Just entering Oldsie was an adventure. But Oldsie ran. No oil, gas gauge below “E,” he ran.

Unfortunately, Oldsie was possessed. One night, I forgot to remove the pullout stereo, so Dad huffed and puffed outside to retrieve it. Dad sat in the driver’s seat, letting one leg hang out the door, when Oldsie backed up, flattening Dad, shredding his work shirt so that only the neck was left.

Back inside, Dad held up the stereo like a trophy, saying, “I got it, but Oldsie ran me over,” whispering creepily like Jack Nicholson.

When Oldsie had bald tires, no hubcaps, sketchy paint and a billion miles, Dad still couldn’t let go, keeping Oldsie for “quick trips to the store.” Finally, my uncles sold him for scrap.

Next came “Snake,” a black Mitsubishi. With Snake, I sped recklessly through college, not one accident or ticket. Snake took me, one bag and hippie Ben cross-country. Snake took me and hippie Chad (halfway) back home.

Poor Snake was tortured — slept in, spilled on, puked on and, well, we won’t go there. This is a family story.

I needed road trip space, so I bought the first white, girl Ford Wagon I saw. The Wagon saw me through mellow post-college days and horse farm work, bouncing courageously down potholed drives. But I had a hunch she was dying.

Drove her to the shop. Fine. Salesmen test-drove her. Fine. Moments after buying a new car, The Wagon wouldn’t start. She never started again. Huh.

Enter the Chevrolet Z25, a sporty two-door littered with band bumper stickers, tiger-striped floor mats, the works. The Chevy, my cool blue boy, led me to and from Rock shows. I was listening to the radio when … crash! “Shit, I’ve lost him,” I thought. Then I wondered if I broke anything. In that order.

Like an intense Without a Trace episode, Dad sped to the scene, talking on his cell with his brothers while the tow guy snickered. Smash a car into a square heap, and our collective minds are still on repair.

We use car metaphors for feelings.

“How’s your car running?” means “How’re you doing?”

Answers are metaphoric as well. “Needs coolant.”

I’ll say, “Unc, this car I bought from you makes noises.”

He’ll say, “Turn the stereo up.” Chuckle. “There’s always a good deal on a new one.”

Always.

A few weeks ago, my phone rang at 8 a.m. sharp. The frantic caller was my oldest uncle. Like every year, he won, beating his brothers, saying, “Happy birthday.” From the dealership.

Yesterday, I went to pick up The Chevy. The service writers smiled, greeting me like I was Norm from Cheers.

When I saw my car, his near-totaled injuries healed in record time, I thought, “After all my stressing, the damn thing looks better than before the wreck.”

Uncles ahead by 10 points.

This article appears in Sep 13-19, 2006.