Town Car

             

1979 Lincoln Town Car.  The one in this story once looked this way.

My dad’s vehicle was in the shop with significant body damage.  He claimed alcohol was not a factor in the late-night, single-car crash, but I never could buy that.  The outfit underwriting his state minimum coverage did not provide for a rental, leaving him with few options.  He called one evening asking for a lift to his sister’s house, about an hour away.

“Your aunt has a car that she’s going to let me borrow,” he explained.

“That’s great,” I said, agreeing to take him to pick it up that Sunday.  “What is it?” I asked, bracing for something horrific.

“A Lincoln, I believe,” he said, nonplussed.  

This was a pleasant surprise; Lincolns were luxurious even before MOC McConaughey had those peculiar moments of introspection behind the wheel.  This also promised to be an arrangement that far exceeded typical family expectations.  In our family, favors, when not shot down in the request phase, could range from bait-and-switch to strings as cumbersome as battleship chains. Generally speaking, interfamilial transactions were rakish. When told my dad was getting a loaner, I had imagined something towed from a demolition derby, or a Bondo-colored Datsun without a passenger door.  

My sister decided to join us.  She was concerned about our father’s transportation situation specifically and was generally solicitous that his standard of living had been in a freefall since our parents’ divorce a few years earlier.  At that time, he was rooming with a friend and fellow divorcee in a pink house in an otherwise tidy middle-class neighborhood. They hosted Sunday afternoon basketball games in the driveway, played loud music, and consumed Coors Light by the hogshead.  Given the unsettling trend, my sister was rightfully anxious that our dad might actually consent to driving a Bondo-colored Datsun without a passenger door.

The Wilsons, particularly my dad, had a hideous automobile resume.  There was the primer-colored VW Bug that stunk of the 3M all-purpose adhesive that held it together.  The ivy green Capri that just stunk.  There was the Pinto Pony--for those deterred by the bulk of the full-size Pinto.  My father also took turns driving vehicles belonging to my grandfather, including the infamous yellow Toronado, and after his passing, his F-150 pickup truck.  Finally, things took a turn for the better when my dad bought a new, no-frills Mazda truck.  The transaction was particularly notable as the salesman looked like the Fender Rhodes player from a 1970s jazz fusion band, with a stellar coffee-colored Caucasian afro and robust bouquet of matching chest hair.  

But with the Mazda out of commission, he was reduced to the yet-to-be-seen stopgap. If it was, in fact, a Lincoln, it would be an amazing stroke of good fortune.  Still, knowing the characters involved, it seemed too good to be true. With the Wilsons, altruism is seldom a solitary motive.    

After a Sunday morning drive with nervous anticipation lurking, we arrived at my aunt and uncle’s place.  A 1979 medium blue Town Car sat resting on underinflated white walls in dead grass in the lot behind their house. Years in the elements had given the paint a greenish hue, with creeping pockets of rust around the edges.  The vinyl portion of the roof was peeling significantly, with pieces falling away in small, brittle chunks.  All four doors were intact.

Spanning the length of a beach volleyball court, this was the largest passenger car I’d ever seen.  Somehow, the word huge seems to sell it short.  The fender skirts were the size of surfboards.  I had no idea how it would fit in the downtown parking garage near my dad’s office.  I had doubts as to whether it would even start.

“Fucker fired right up yesterday,” declared my uncle as he hobbled off the front porch with the keys in one hand, a fresh scotch and soda in the other.

“Well, that’s nice and roomy,” I said, panning for something nice to say.

My sister trembled at the very sight of it.

“You don’t have to drive that, do you Daddy?”

He remained phlegmatic and patted her on the shoulder.

"Don't worry baby girl," he said. "Everything will be fine."

He then walked over and opened the door. The fetor was practically visible. A warm waft of air escaped, carrying the scent of cat carrion and piss.  My dad climbed into the driver’s seat, with his nose turned up and scowling as though he’d ingested a spoonful of castor oil.  He pumped the gas pedal and turned the key. After a couple of false starts, the engine came to life with a tired whine and a rumble that launched from the tailpipe in a toxic, coal-black fart.  In idle, it sounded like several pairs of shoes tumbling in a dryer while the belts squealed in torture.  However, the Town Car was operational, even if only autoschediastically. 

“Keep it as long as you need to,” my aunt yelled as my dad pulled the desperation on wheels out of the grass and onto the street, thick exhaust hanging behind it in a low, poisonous cloud.  

My sister and I followed, thinking that at any moment the vehicle might drop an axle or simply die on the spot.  We reached speed on the interstate, with the tires kicking clods of dried mud in their wake before settling into a comfortable wobble.  The exhaust calmed considerably while the retrofit CB antenna whipped like a fishing rod angling a stubborn bass.

My sister was preoccupied with the optics.  Though she’d never have to ride in the car, she was embarrassed for our father.

“We’ve got to come up with something else,” she said with a tone of genuine concern.

“Oh, it won’t last more than two weeks,” I reassured her.  “Even if it holds together, he’s not going to want to drive it that long.  Keeping it in gas is going to cost a small fortune.”

Though the car was less than twenty years old, it couldn’t have looked more anachronistic among the newer vehicles on the road.  We weren’t far enough removed from the oversized 1970s at that point to be completely past the trauma of those engineering nightmares.  Not only did the Town Car have the classic 1970s bulk, it also got the analogous gas mileage.   

True to form, we were about fifteen minutes from our destination when the turn signal flashed, and my dad steered the craft starboard into a gas station.

“Oh my god!” shrieked my sister.  “Already?”

True enough, the car had burned through just over a quarter-tank of gas in approximately thirty miles.  We pulled in behind to make sure everything else was okay.

“Yeah,” said Dad with mild surprise.  “The radio is broken, but by god the CB still works! It smells like cat piss, but it runs pretty well.  Shitty gas mileage, but we expected that.”

Whether it was a brave face or he really didn’t mind driving a rust-caked blue boat, my sister and I were humiliated by proxy.  Perhaps it was all relative.  My father grew up in the 1960s in a large family of limited means.  Any vehicle was a privilege irrespective of condition.  

My dad once told me of a car he had while in high school that had a rusted-out floorboard on the passenger side.  When he would drive his little brother around, he’d deliberately hit puddles so that muddy water would splash up on him in the passenger seat.  My father tended to be a function over form guy. Maybe the condition and appearance of the Town Car truly didn’t matter.  Maybe it was karma taking the scenic route.

Assured that he would be fine, we were sent ahead to the pink house.  Before the car episode and fallout, we had planned to spend the afternoon playing basketball with the boys.  The games and beer were in full swing by the time we arrived.  Aware of what was going on, the gang was eager to see the loaner car.  We tried to brace them for our father’s arrival.

“It’s so sad,” said my sister.

“It was probably really nice at one time,” I said, locating some specks of optimism in my gold snuffer.

A few minutes later, a thunderous rumbling could be heard in the distance as if a cacophonous drumline was ushering my dad’s new ride into the neighborhood.  As it lurched in front of the house, everybody stopped what they were doing to watch. Cat calls and wolf whistles greeted his arrival as the behemoth lumbered to a stop along the curb.

“Love those gangster white walls,” howled one of my dad’s friends.

“Oh no,” yelled my father’s roommate.  “You’re not parking that hunk of shit in front of my house.”

It didn’t stay for long.  In fact, that was the only time I saw my dad drive it.  Less than two weeks later, the Town Car threw a rod and met its long-overdue destiny. It was taken to the salvage yard.  My dad spotted my uncle the amount for the tow truck.  He figured it was the least he could do.