I Wish I Had a Picture

This morning while I was driving the boys to school, Jake asked me what car he would drive once he gets his driver's license. Amid my horror at the thought of any of my children driving, a vivid little image popped into my brain: the car I was privileged to drive as a teenager.

I didn't take driver's ed until the summer after I turned sixteen. Since I left school early, right after third period, to go to the gym, I didn't have room in my schedule for it. Plus there was the fact, the rusty, brown, embarrassing fact of the car I was going to have to drive.

I wasn't very excited about getting my driver's license.

Most of my friends had cars that weren't all that amazing. Well, Kristi had a new CR-X, but she was the exception. Chris had a Gremlin, I think, and we once had a terrifying moment driving up the canyon when we couldn't figure out why it had lost all its power (no one said you had to change gears when driving uphill!) Jenn had a Pinto. It seems like most of the boys I knew had old, 1950s-era cars, except for the guy with the Monza. The Monza! I can't even tell you how much stuff happened in that Monza. Second only to the Audi which came later. Amazing or not, though, the point was that I wasn't all that anxious to drive, since everyone else already had cars---cars that were less-embarrassing than the one I had to drive.

I wish, so badly, that I had a picture.

In fact, I wish I had a picture of all those cars, because they were each a fragment of our identities. A way of knowing who was who, the thing you looked for carefully when you were driving down the street, hoping to spot someone you knew. A space where things happened: conversations, crying, kissing. Music. A synecdoche object, car-as-person. Spot the little silver car, see Chris. Spot the Monza and your heart accelerated.

Since I don't have a photo, though, let me describe the car I drove once I finally got my driver's license. It was, as previously stated, brown. And rusty. The seats were black vinyl benches. The floorboards were covered with ragged rubber mats and there was a tear in the back seat. There was no air conditioning, of course, but it did have windows, the kind you rolled down with the knob, which was also black. It also lacked seat belts; some had been cut off by previous owners, and the rest were shoved down into that dusty, crumb-filled netherworld under the seats. It had an AM radio with a dial for tuning and those hard plastic knobs you'd push for your station presets. (If, that is, you could actually find a station you wanted to listen to. Not much alternative music was played on AM radio, even in the eighties.)

It was, dear reader, a 1972 Ford Torino.

I gave it a very foul name, as was tradition---all of my friends named their cars. Constantly shutgun (or shoved to the middle when I had passengers) was an enormous boom box, powered by batteries, so I was never without music. You'd think that black interior would make me happy, considering my black affection. After scorching the backs of my legs on the seats countless times, or the palm of my hand on the window knobs, however: not so much. It was old, and ugly, and unfeminine. I hated that car as much as I loved it.

Because it did have one redeeming quality: it was fast. Don't tell my dad, but sometimes I would race against the other fast cars. Sometimes I would be feeling desperate enough that I would win because I wasn't afraid of anything: police, or accidents, or the certain death that comes from high-speed impact. I would gun it, and I would beat the boys, and they would be both annoyed and sheepishly envious. Even the boy with the Monza. And as much as I wanted something new, and cute, and feminine, that ugly old car was often my refuge. It gave me a way to escape. If the odometer had worked, it would have counted all the miles I drove, drinking coffee and crying.

The odometer wasn't the only thing that didn't work, though. The gas gage, too, was broken. That car guzzled gas, and I was never sure how much it had. So I ran out of gas. Often. I'd have to walk to the nearest gas station, call my dad, and wait for help. And it didn't have brake lights, either.

Sometimes I'm not sure my parents loved me very much.

One of the first things I bought for myself once I had a job that paid decently was a car. Nothing new, of course; but it was, at least, small. The gas gage, odometer, and brake lights all worked. I think the Torino was handed down to Becky. It was a relief to give it up, but oddly enough I'd like to see it again. Down in that under-the-seats netherworld, mixed in with french fry bits, and donut crumbs, and dust and ash and seat belts, the cells of myself mingle with time. Awful and embarrassing and dangerous as it was, the Torino was, after all, a piece of my identity.

And I wish I had a picture.

What did you drive as a teenager?

Comments

[Becky]

Torino.

And, lady, the boom box was mine. A fact you loved to forget, back in the day.

I have my own memories of said car. I know I added plenty of french fries and ash to it in my day, too.

[wendy]

Didn't.

I didn't get my license until my mission. I hated my Dad's teaching style (in a Chevelle, by the way), and my parents convinced me that I couldn't afford the insurance. I really didn't need it until my mission, so my boyfriend and another friend taught me in their respective cars when I was 20/21.

[jamie `]

You may find this odd but I've NEVER had my very own car. I shared a Maroon hatchback 4 door Nissan Sentra in high school with my sisters, A red Ford Tempo with a penchant for stalling with my sisters in college (I hated that car but I learned how to pop a clutch and how to smile and ask for help when we were lodged in a snowbank in the middle of Wyoming because it chose to stall and lock up the power steering on an icy road to Grandma's house) and then I shared my favorite car so far... a black Mazda protege with a sunroof with Mark. Now I share a van with Mark and 5 kids.

[Karen Greenfield]

A red VW bug--1965--that I named Kirby. He was a very responsible trusty little car and we had many adventures together. I wish I had kept him. I didn't learn to drive until I was 19--too nervous which is probably why I had such faith in Kirb.

[Olivia]

I had two cars. The first one was a Mercury Montego that had been my grandfather's. When he died, he left it to me and my sister. It was powder blue, had an AM radio, and an add-in air conditioner. Granddaddy had wrecked it a few times, but it was always straightened in the body shop. It was driveable. I really didn't care much about driving (and still don't today, even after nearly 40 years behind the wheel). The next car was a Gremlin that my sister and shared until I was able to buy my first car--a red Ford Escort with an am-fm radio, built-in airconditioning, and a straight-drive transimission. I had never driven a straight-drive until I bought that car! My goodness, I hadn't thought of those cars in a long time. Now, I wish I had a picture, too.

[Kristin Johnson]

My first car was a hideous 1978 Silver Ford Granada with a lusciously plush maroon interior. The high school I went to in Kansas City was very affluent and I had friends who drove Mercedes and BMWs and the "poor" person's car was a Honda. So here came Kristin cruising in her Granada...nicknamed "The Revver"...because you had to rev it multiple times to start it and to keep it going. Oddly enough my friends always wanted me to drive and loved cruising in that baby. I think my parents got too much enjoyment out of seeing me in it...not only was it big and safe but it kept me humble.

[Candace]

My first car (the first that I officially owned under my name) was a 1983 honda civic - 2 door hatchback black with black interior, no air conditioning, crank down windows, gas gage didn't work but I knew that I could get 300 miles out of a full tank so I had to just watch that, it had the same sort of stereo as yours but I luckly had FM stations (no boombox required). My car was nicknamed "The Beetle Bum". Got in a wreck my senior year when a cheerleader smashed into me at school (hence my hatered of cheerleaders)sent my friend (who was wearing her seatbelt) to the hospital (I was not wearing mine, which I got into huge trouble for later and I am now a seatbelt natzie. Oh and I didn't get hurt) but the car just needed minor repairs. For a small car it was a tank.

[Chris Selander]

Oh this post brings back so many memories! I'll have to look in my pics - there may be one of the Torino! My little silver Plymouth Champ, that looked like someone had made a car out of tinfoil, was a love/hate relationship too. I am grateful that I took pics of my "Milton" :)

[Zyzmog]

In high school, I had to choose between the family station wagon ('69 Dodge Polara, NOT exciting) and my dad's commuter car (an ugly little Renault 10 of similar vintage).

When I was home from college for the summers, I got to drive the "kids' car": a white Chevette with an automatic transmission. (sigh of self-pity goes here)

I met a girl at college who had a '69 Dodge Charger. That was a fun car - black vinyl seats, by the way. I ended up marrying the girl, but by then the Charger had been replaced by a '69 Plymouth Satellite. That was a fun car, too. When it was time to get rid of the Satellite, she had it towed while I was at work, so I wouldn't cry about it.

[Garry Brei]

Well my first car from my college days was a Nissan. It was running fine, until it was finally stopped by a concrete post. I'm okay though, the Japanese knew a thing or two about car safety, hehe. I would love to own a Torino too, or a Toyota AE86. That would be awesome.