Cars

 Memorial Day Weekend.

One of those quintessential American holidays, at least where I grew up. The first of three big ones each summer, to be followed by July 4th in the middle and Labor Day, which marks the end of the season.

Act One, Act Two, Act Three, like in a screenplay, during which your lead character might fall in love. But there aren’t many screenplays in progress this summer, with the Writer’s Guild of America on strike.

I was a member of the WGA during my mostly unsuccessful screenwriting years, and while I never got rich or famous that way, working on stories that were to have been movies helped me grow up as a writer.

Meanwhile, Memorial Day is, of course, all about the coming of summer and remembering our troops but also about our love affair with cars. For example, what was traditionally the race of races — the Indy 500 — always happens this weekend. Then again, I wonder how many people know just how very close Indianapolis came to being the center of the nascent auto industry in the early 20th century as opposed to my birthplace, Detroit.

That didn’t work out, as the story was relayed to me, because the city fathers in Indianapolis didn’t think cars would be such a big deal. Oops. At least Indy got the race as a consolation.

Anyway, yesterday I got to observe one of those truly American experiences — buying a car — up close. I accompanied my son-in-law to a dealership in Petaluma where he was to take possession of his brand new vehicle.

It was a cool, shivery, wet morning in the small town where Winona Ryder grew up and was bullied as a teenager. There weren’t any other customers yet when we arrived but the salesmen were already fidgeting, walking here and there, criss-crossing the empty campus, eyeing us hungrily. Each one of them eventually greeted me, albeit with diminishing degrees of hope.

One offered me coffee. Another climbed inside a big, sleek, black Cadillac SUV, apparently to demonstrate its prowess, even when stationary, while I was seated nearby. A third came up suddenly and uttered “Would you look at that,” to no one in particular.

The car, still wet as a newborn puppy,  awaiting my son-in-law was a far cry from the vehicles of my youth, which were big, heavy, gas-guzzling clunkers that resembled guided missiles and sometimes did just as much damage with the wrong hands on the wheel.

But this brand new EV is small, light and capable of recharging its battery even as you drive it to the point you can have more battery left when you reach your destination than when you embarked on the journey in the first place.

Now, if only we could figure out how to do that with our own bodies.

Alas, we can’t do that just yet but stay tuned. Anyway, as we prepared to leave that place one of the salesmen shook my hand and said, “*You’re a quiet one, aren’t you?”

“Yep,” I replied. “There’s not that much to say.”

At that point my son-in-law chipped in. “He’ll probably write about it on his blog.” 

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