Dead Car, Dead Father

(Excerpted from the forthcoming novel, “The Man Who Would Be John Irving)

September, 2003:

They are threatening to tow my father’s Cadillac. When he died, the car was dead too.

I get the call about the back insurance payments and unpaid parking tickets and imagine his powder-blue baby joining the ranks of so many junkyard bastions, offering its body like a sacrifice to a roaring pile of rubble.

I could have done something, but I had no need for a car. The registration expired. In the end, I fear I cannot rescue her.

I often thought my father’s car was more like his daughter than I. Her velour interior, always polished and vacuumed on a regular basis, maintained a smoothness and in one precise direction. Her compact disc changer, equipped with six slots for unscratched CDs and only from the Virgin Records on Broadway, switched up regularly and with grand gesture. My father would pull her over and rifle through his music until satisfied with the day’s curation.

Her ash tray, cleaned out once a day with pipe cleaners and tissues, reserved for only the finest Cuban cigars. Her exterior, a pale, easy blue paint job — never chipped, free of bird droppings and painstakingly shined.

Her hood ornament, a gleaming silver Cadillac emblem, stolen many times, always replaced. In her expansive rear, a game of Tetris played with boxes. All secured in the most relevant space, camping equipment packaged and snuggled into corners — one spare tire just in case.

Her atlases set deep in backseat pockets, earmarked for long and short journeys, their glossy covers still intact. The dashboard, dust-free, granted a fatherly baby pat daily — a thankful gesture from the happy owner. Her Bose speakers. Expensive, mint condition, concert-quality.

Her driver maintains his cool. He’s equipped with a near-perfect driving record, a handicapped sticker that affords him the best parking spots in Manhattan and beyond. He’s a common man used to the hum of road trips, staying in motels, trailer parks, camping sites. He gets to know the locals. He drives wearing a jean jacket lined in sheepskin purchased at the GAP in 1987, a Stetson hat from Wyoming, large black-rimmed eyeglasses, New Balance sneakers and faded Levi’s 501s. He proudly dons a turquoise bolo tie, balances a cigar at his lips. He sings along to the music, rarely uses a cell phone and wishes he always had a buddy to pass the time with — maybe swap stories from Vietnam.

His baby is boat-like. She has trouble merging on to highways. She’s long and lean, an aerodynamic character. He is bald and carries his own spare tire. She passes every emission test. He has high cholesterol.

But they both end up in the same place. Families should stick together.