Bumper Cars
I need to face it…cars don’t mean much to me. I prefer them small, marginally marred, and with an air of spunk. The gleaming, pristine autos with their plush, leather seats and purring, clean engines don’t rev me in the least. In fact, if the driver holds an attitude to match the sticker price, I think cars can be a dangerous status symbol. But…I’ve never driven one of those cars…until today.
A lifetime ago…before kids and carpools…a dear friend came to live with Andy and me. She was escaping a wretched relationship, and we offered up our extra room for a haven. Eventually, she ventured cautiously back into the dating scene, and as any good friend would, I watched her like a hawk. After a long night out, while I waited like a dealer in the lot for the test drive to be over, I saw the headlights pull up. I rushed out to meet her suitor and welcome home my pal. I peered into the passenger side window, as she rolled it down. His window remained up, and he kept his hands on the wheel. My company wasn’t highly received. Andy joined me out there, hoping to pry me away so they had space for their departing gestures. And then somehow…the topic of cars began.
I went off…spewing my ideas of how some cars were too big for their own name. Why on Earth did BMW’s capitalize each letter as if it were some acclaimed college or airline affiliate? I followed with a few other ridiculously accusatory ideas…as I proposed that maybe the drivers had something to prove for lack in some other areas. This is a theory I have never tested. My girlfriend looked at me wide-eyed…and I was certain I saw a twinkle. So I continued…awaiting contribution or perhaps just agreement. Nothing. Andy kept kicking my ankle, his attacks shielded by the car door. I figured he just wanted me to leave the courting couple alone. Finally, I paused and gave my attempted conversation a pit stop.
Her date looked directly into my eyes, hands still gripped on the wheel. Stating in a calm, armor-all coated voice, he pronounced, “This is a BMW”. Oh shit…Reverse!!! I blurted a flurry of excuses…how this BMW was so unlike other BMW’s. How it didn’t hold that stigma at all. In fact, I couldn’t even tell it was a BMW because it was just so discreet. That I, of course, was referring to those souped of versions of this perfectly engineered German auto. And hey, maybe I could join them one day and take a ride! It was too late. He backed away with his halogen fog lights, and I puttered back into the apartment. He never called.
If you were to see my car, this would all make sense. It is some strange combination of emergency relief vehicle, amusement park bumper car, Pimp-My-Ride, sassy van. Oh, and it would still keep Leonardo DiCaprio happy with it’s low carbon footprint. It has enough crumbs hidden between floormats to feed my family for a week. There are scratches and dents (that I lovingly refer to as dimples and laugh lines) on every angle of the car. And when hunting for a couple of replacement hubcaps at the tire store, I naively agreed to chrome-plated rims. It still gets great gas mileage and holds the name Ruby…for her spunky, salsa-red scuffed paint job. So who am I to judge a joy ride?
But today I actually flew down to some city in southern California to purchase…are you ready for this…a BMW! Talk about life teaching you humility. In a quick, glove compartment version, I was picking it up for my brother and his wife. They love and respect all things on wheels. She works at a race track, and he builds cars like most kids tinker with Legos. This was the car of their dreams. They needed a hand and since I drive an automatic, I had a free one.
The reluctant seller agreed to meet me at the airport. Upon sight of my boot, he promised to make me an expert on cruise control. And he did…along with the tiptronic transmission, the panoramic sunroof, and the rear seat climate control. Every auto detail went right out my rear window. Given my previous BMW conversation collision, I really just needed to know how to find reverse. We sealed the deal in oil, and I backed away with the pink slip in hand.
I really wanted to envelop this ride…to feel something special that warranted the awe that accompanies these letters. But to the unsophisticated driver…a car is just a car. And though I can appreciate the unique experience that comes with a Bavarian machine, I missed the familiarity of my sweet, dented van. Still, seeing the joy on both my brother and his wife’s face, made me understand. The feeling they have behind the wheel is the same I have driving my maimed Ruby…who managed to add yet another dimple this morning from a parking lot squabble. It is about creature comforts whether it is heated seats or juice-stained, cloth interior. But I wonder…does BMW make bumper cars?