Fast Cars

What is it about men and fast cars? This is something that I have been trying to figure out now for the longest time. I can still remember when I was younger, my father went out and (much to my mother's chagrin, I'm sure) purchased an old Triumph. It was white with a silver bumper, had two seats and a tan interior that smelled wonderfully aged. I remember when my father brought it home, thinking that it was too small to fit all of us inside. I wondered why my father would purchase what seemed like a totally impractical car. Even more, it seemed as if no one but my father was allowed to touch it- let alone look at it the wrong way.

That summer, he made it a point to give his car the "spa" treatment every day. On nice days, he would start the car up with a roar and back it out of our one-car garage where he would proceed to wax and buff it until it looked like nothing more than a trick of the sunlight. I remember finally being allowed to sit in the front seat of the car. I remember the sweet smell of aged leather filling my nostrils and the look of the little dials inside, which reminded me of being on a boat. My brother was the lucky one, however. My father would occasionally go out for rides around town with my little brother. However, on a few occasions, these rides were short lived.

The phone would ring in our house, and my mother would answer it and then sigh while shaking her head disapprovingly. "Where are you again?" She would then gather her things, and we would have to go and pick up my father who had been joyriding in his Triumph and had broken down somewhere on Long Island. After a while, the glory of owning a sporty car faded, and it was back to business as usual. As soon as the car came into (our) lives, it was just as quickly sold to the next gentleman. Sometimes, I would look out the window at every white car I saw, trying to catch a glimpse of my father's Triumph. I wondered whether or not the new owner enjoyed it as much or took as much time taking care of it as my own father had. I wondered if I would see some poor guy stranded on the side of the road next to this lovely old two-seater sports car, looking disappointed not because he had broken down (again) but because he would have to temporarily part ways with such a fine automobile while he went and sought help.