|
 |
|
 |
Think Small
|
|
| Publisher: |
Volkswagon |
| Copyright Date: |
1967 |
| Notes: |
A six page essay, "My
Dream Car", by Jean Shepherd is included in this small book
which was used as a promotion of their cars. |
|
 |
The
other night, as I lay safely sealed in the warm, comforting womb
of my trundle bed, dozing fitfully after my long nightly bout of
Late Late movies, the strains of Donald O'Connor's high, piping
voice still ringing in the echoing caverns of my mind, an old,
troublesome vision glowed faintly somewhere near the vicinity of
the ceiling and then vanished. I sat up, beads of sweat
instantly forming themselves on my pinched brow. I had seen that
same vision many times over the years. It was an old enemy, and
had caused me hours of soul-searching, and indeed perhaps
accounts for my well-defined but nicely-hidden sense of deep
inferiority. I had never spoken of this problem to others since,
after all, there are some things best left lying quietly in the
closets of the soul. But now I feel, since there could
conceivably be others dogged by the same inadequacy, that in a
spirit of Public Service it had all better come out.
It concerns that ubiquitous feature which runs over and
over and over again in all Male-type magazines: My Dream Car.
Hardly a Male periodical goes to press these days without a
spectacularly illustrated piece by somebody named Ken
something-or-other entitled "My Dream Car." It is as classical a
piece of writing as a Hollywood western or a Broadway musical.
It always follows the same well-worn paths and arrives at the
same comfortable old destination. Its opening lines go like
this:
I will never forget the day I stood 6y the side of that
dusty country road, my hand comfortably held by the
work-hardened miff of my colorful grandfather Ebeneezer. There
was a cloud of dust and a deep-throated, heart-warming,
thunderous boom as a great yellow speedster roared past, sing
swirling clouds of dust and exhaust as it boomed over the hill.
Crouched over the wheel, his oil-bespattered goggles glinting in
the sun, sat Dan Dangerfield, the local playboy and a student of
that big college up in the city, named Harvard.
Instantly my eyes glazed over as I fell madly and
forever in love with that belching monster. When the ground had
ceased (rambling under our teat, old Grandpa cackled wheezily:
"Son, that's the greatest car Man ever built. That's
the (Blank Bank]. It was then 1 knew that some day I had to own
a (Blank Blank].
The blanks are invariably filled with (7) Stutz
Bearcat, (2) Mercedes 540 SK, (3) Mercer Raceabout, (4)
Dusenberg SJ. The piece then invariably goes on to tell of the
author's harrowing thirty year search for the [Blank Blank] and
how, finally, tracking down an idle rumor heard in a barbershop,
he encounters in a broken-down old barn a [Blank Blank] owned by
a spectacularly folksy (t) Presbyterian minister, (2) crusty New
England farmer, or (3) eccentric collector of Yugoslavian coins,
who then takes an instant liking to the author and consents,
after thirty years of loving care, to part with this priceless
family heirloom. The piece is always accompanied with a
magnificent four-color illustration of a classic [Blank Biank].
Now I don't take issue with this delicious bit of
confection. I suppose, in the end, it is as harmless as a Doris
Day/James Garner romance, but it has nevertheless left its scar
on what remains of my self-respect. It Is difficult to admit,
even to your closest friends, that you have never had a love
affair with a Dusenberg or a Stutz Bearcat and, in fact, don't
even remember hearing of them, much less seeing one, in your mis-spent
youth. Furthermore. it is an even crummier feeling to have a
dream car that you're even ashamed to talk about. I might as
well let ii came cut now even though Ken whatever-his-name-is
(it's something like Perky, or Puppy) would probably not even
wish to acknowledge my existence if he ever hears of this, which
I doubt.
The truth of the matter is I'm not sure that my dream
car even exists, or ever was. It is never in classic car shows.
It is never mentioned in glossy volumes of great automobiles of
the past. And on the few occasions that I have dared to bring it
up, I get nothing but blank stares.
It all began when I was a pale-cheeked lad
hurling newspapers into drainage gutters a Northern Indiana mill
town. Daily I would take a short cut through a shoddy,
wind-blown Used Car lot where many a humbled used car buyer had
been bilked of his life savings and then some. It was not
exactly a Used Car lot; more of a defeated car graveyard.
Elderly battered hulks, their original color and shape long
since lost in the misty shades of the past rested in ragged
rows, hubcap-deep in beer cans and cigar butts, awaiting
hopefully one last owner. Overhead, a red and white sign banged
in the wind: "HAPPY HARRY THE HUNGRY ARMENIAN CARS BOUGHT AND
SOLD WE NEED CASH! LATE MODELS OUR SPECIALTY NO SIGNATURE
NEEDED."
Occasionally Harry himself, his beady eyes glowing in
the naked lightbulbs that hopefully lent a fictitious sheen to
the hoods of his mortgaged clunkers, could be seen skulking
about the premises, stuffing a wad of gum into a leaky radiator
here, or dusting stove black over a cracked block there; always
cheerful, always confident, ready for a deal.
Every night I hurried through Happy Harry's on my way
to the next street, which lay at the end of my endless paper
route. Gradually I began to know every battered hulk on Harry's
lot. They would came and go. Some would remain longer than
others. Some never went at all, and are probably still there,
buried now in the mud, awaiting the archeologist's pick.
One dark dreary day when the wend bore a cutting edge
to it and even Harry's lightbulbs looked discouraged. I first
encountered the car which today I doubt even existed. It was
square and runty, a strangely mis-shapen, irritated little car.
Same machines are majestic; others voluptuous. A few are
arrogant end sleek. This car, if it was anything, radiated an
aura of aggressive timidity. Ironically, it bore proudly on the
pocked and rusted hubcaps in classic bas-relief, the profile of
a famous football coach, a football coach who was a demi-god in
the Midwest, a football coach whose very name was synonymous
with success and victory.
I had never seen such a car. My sack of sodden papers
hanging heavy on my shoulder, I circled this dun-colored,
stunted little entry in the great American automobile
sweepstakes. Sure enough, on it's tarnished radiator, in bronze
letters, was the name of the coach himself. The wlndshield bore
in large runny whitewash lettering its price: eighteen dollars.
I circled it warily. Of course, I was far too young to
own a car, but I looked at them plenty and thought about them
constantly. I peered in at its dim cramped little dashboard and
stood back to get the whole picture. Harry, sensing a nibble,
was on the scene instantly, licking his chops.
"A beauty, ain't it, son?"
"Yep," I answered, "sure is."
"Just one owner."
"Yeah." I answered.
"Yep, Baptist Sunday School teacher. Old Lady. Just
used it for picnics on Sunday."
The cutting wind tinkled the bare lightbulbs overhead
as we both gazed approvingly at the little car which noticeably
sagged in the middle.
"Yeah. You ask your Dad about her. He'll tell you."
Harry was gone, back into his little wooden shack to continue
his endless game of Deuces Wild solitaire. I scurried over the
rest of my route, thinking about the car that I did not realize
at the time would become a secret, ghostly mirage in my later
life.
That night at the supper table, in the warm air of our
kitchen an atmosphere heavy with the aroma of red cabbage and
meatloaf, I put it to the Old Man. He was a recognized local
expert on the folklore and mythology of the Used Car, a walking
compendium of the intricate knowledge of a highly complex field
of study. He knew intimately the vintage years, the years of
drought of all the various breeds of machines that roamed the
back alleys of the Midwest.
"Dad..." I began. He laid down the Sport page and
prepared to dispense advice and knowledge.
"Dad, Happy Harry has got a funny car on his lot that I
never heard of."
"Yeah? What is it?" Such a statement always brought the
Old Man's mind to full attention. There were two subjects that
involved his entire life; Used Cars and the White Sox, an
obscure ball team of the Chicago area.
"Well, it's got this guy's picture on the hubcaps."
"What guy?"
"That football coach." I couldn't remember his name.
"Football coach? You mean Happy Harry the hungry
Armenian has got on his lot a Rockne?"
His voice rose in obvious interest.
"Yeah, that's it, a Rockne."
"Well, I'll be damned. A Rockne. How much does he want
for it?"
"Eighteen dollars." I answered.
"That crook!" The Old Man laughed appreciatively. He
and Harry were old adversaries.
"I never heard of a Rockne." I continued gamely, hoping
he would say something nice about it.
"Son, the Rockne is the second-worst piece of junk ever
made! Next to the Essex Super 6. It's got a transmission made
out of balsa wood. The only time I ever saw a Rockne do over 25
on the flat was the time I saw one get smacked in the rear by a
Western Avenue streetcar going full tilt, end then the guy
couldn't get it stopped for two blocks because it didn't have
any brakes. Eighteen bucks for a Rockne! Well, you gotta hand it
to old Harry for trying."
The next day I could hardly wait to get back to the end
of my route so I could see the Rockne again. I hurried through
the rows of dilapidated heaps to the spot where it stood. It was
gone. In Its place an old Hudson convertible sat rusting away
quietly. I never again saw another Rockne.
Or heard of them, for that matter. And now, at this
long last, I have begun to doubt whether they really existed.
Did I make up this scene? Was there ever a Rockne? I find it
hard to believe that the great giant of the Fighting Irish would
have lent his name to such a loser. I have never been able to
shake that vague, insistent desire to see one, to sit in one,
maybe even to own one. I know it is shameful to admit that my
dream car did not thunder, sending up great, billowing clouds of
dust as it roared over the brick oval at Indianapolis. Some men
dream big. Others dream little. I hope Ken Whatshisname won't
think too evil of me for this abject admission. But there it is.
A man sometimes has to face himself and admit what he is.
Sometimes I awake in the dark in the early morning hours and
imagine that I see a scuttling, dun-colored Rockne limping
around a corner and struggling into a service station. And
moreover then my dream fades, leaving only the sighing wind. Was
there ever a Rockne? Or have I dreamed it all? |
|
|
|
