Driving in a Family Way By Buster McNutt OK. Earlier parts got us to the first Hertz Caprice for Lady McNutt, and the ’63 Volvo Station Wagon (a.k.a. “the Square Cut Studebaker from Stockholm’). If you missed those in- stallments, you can either run down to the basement and finish work on that time machine, or, if you are one of our basement-challenged readers, you can call this publication and ask for a re- print. Your chances are about the same either way. So anyway, a few months later the Caprice entered into a hostile merger with an El Camino. As those of you who didn’t use high school Spanish lab to catch up on Spiderman’s latest ad- ventures would know, “El Camino” in Spanish means “I don’t stop for no stinking stop signs.” We were T- boned, but thanks to the massive girth of the Caprice, the only fatality was the other guy’s insurance coverage. The police and the pair-of-medics ar- rived in about 15 minutes. They would have gotten there quicker but they had to park a block away because of all the other emergency response vehicles that had already arrived—six tow trucks and 43 “Personal Injury Spe- cialist Solicitors.” The PIS-squared lawyers had obviously spent a lot more time watch- ing Live Studio Wrestling than Perry Mason as youngsters. Three more police units had to be called in to break up fights between the barristers, and four bystanders had to be treated for second degree paper cuts from flying business cards. The tow truck opera- tors were able to resolve their issues within three rounds of paper-rock- scissors. The five losing tow truckers left immediately, each with one of the lawyer’s cars in tow. The Caprice was totaled, so we had the police officer drop us off at the Hertz used car lot, where we bought another one. The lot was closed, but this was one of those Cali- fornia concept automated vending machine lots, so all we had to do was enter a credit card number, a thumb print, and answer at least two out of six questions correctly. One was to pick out our favorite color, another was true/false about the number of doors on a four-door sedan, and the other four were equally divided between states and their capitals, and quantum mechanics. The keys dropped down a little slot, a garage door automati- cally opened, and we climbed into our second Hertz Caprice and drove away. No fuss, no muss, no bother. The Volvo would have lasted longer than two years if I could have found replacement brake drums. The odometer had apparently broken mid- way into Nixon’s first term, so I can only guess how many gazillion miles were on the car. The brake drums had been turned so many times that when the shoes needed to contact the drums, it was a long distance call. Since gluing more than two sets of brake linings on top of each other was not on the ap- proved list of Super Glue uses, and the little drag chutes I had made out of Lady M’s old bloomers weren’t being all that effective, I sold the Volvo toa cab driver in Atlanta, who wasn’t all that concerned that its stopping dis- tance was just slightly less than that of the Exxon Valdez on an ocean of fro- zen banana peels. A step-buddy of mine’s grandfa- ther had just passed on, so he sold me FEBRUARY, 2000 the 1965 Olds ’88 that he had inher- ited. He was apparently not the favor- ite grandson. I kept it about a year, and then sold it to get the money to bail Latrell out of jail on that walking- under-the-influence charge he picked up at the Elk Club Ladies Auxiliary Cake Walk and Charity Chitlin Toss- ing Festival in Beaver Dam, Kentucky. Thad fallen into a (shudder) regu- lar job at that particularly low point in my life, which meant I needed depend- able, economical transportation. I ac- tually wanted a big motorcycle, but Lady M wanted me to have a car. So we compromised and I got a new Honda Civic. Hey, you simply have to be willing to meet them halfway! The Honda was front wheel drive and as reliable as compost, so I couldn’t lay out of work when the weather was bad or when the car wouldn’t start. Why have a job if all the benefits are taken away? Aside from that notable short-coming, it was a great little car, and that was the real issue. I’d already done the great little car thing with the Beetle. And it was more than just little— it was everyday little at a time when I no longer really was. So a combination of middle age crazy and middle age spread had me thinking about something a little less cute-n-compact, and a little more testosteronally oriented. I traded for a British racing green, last year’s model Datsun 280Z sports car. It was as reliable as the Honda, but was about as inconspicuous in traf- fic as Madonna at an Amish bra-quilt- ing bee. And it was rear drive, the way God intended a car should be. It was the first car I had ever owned that I felt like I really should wash every once in a while. And then it became every twice ina while, and pretty soon, more of the whiles were being used up Page 1 of 2