(This is part 11 of a multi-part series. If you wish to start at the beginning, click here)
After the 1980 Mustang disappeared into the world of totaled insurance claims, I went back to bumming rides and keys. I had no claim on any car, but I sure didn’t want to give up the freedom and open road I had enjoyed with the Stang. At Mom and Stepdad’s, there was a used ’86 Accord LX-i that I got to drive to school on occasion. The Accord was very smooth, if not sporty. Pop up headlights are awesome (soundtrack: Cuts You Up by Peter Murphy).
Greedily, I started pushing again in the fall of my senior year for another set of wheels to the only one who would listen—Dad. No promises were made, but it seemed the door had opened a crack. Don’t remember the budget. Not sure there was any budget, nor a plan or strong intimations that another car was even possible. Nevertheless, I was driven and again started stalking the want ads.
Kansas City, like many metropolitan areas, has several strips or areas that are home to “Dealer’s row” auto lots. Though they have shifted geographically over the years, at the time Metcalf Avenue was one of the better examples. As a bonus, it lay on the route between my split parents’ homes and made a good excuse to peek at the used cars while commuting back and forth for visits.
One day I was traveling down Metcalf and a small, black, sporty-looking car caught my attention. It was on the National (rental car) used lot of all places. They didn’t usually have anything interesting there besides former rentals being unloaded. I swung the Accord back in a U turn at the next light and pulled into the dinky lot. Looked closer. This outlier example that had caught my eye was a 1986 MR2 with a spacy looking two tone-black/silver interior. Stick shift. The ubiquitous used vehicle cartoon sticker in the upper right windshield proclaimed it would take $5999 to take it home. As I was peering through the glass, a salesman came out. He told me the car was off lease. I whistled at its beauty for a moment and asked to take a test drive. Thankfully, the salesman handed 17 year-old me the keys and told me to go for it. Having barely driven a stick, I nosed the car out into Metcalf very carefully while he watched from the lot. “Don’t kill it in front of him,” I thought. Success. I got the car going and it was immediately clear this was a lot higher quality driving experience than anything I’d ever been in before. I ducked off into a residential neighborhood so I wouldn’t have to worry about my poor stick skills in traffic. Turned back after a short run. Put the car back in the lot (facing in, I wasn’t brave enough to back it in like it had originally been). I thanked the salesman and said I’d go talk to my parents.
Arriving at Dad’s that evening, I told him about the car. He asked a few questions (mainly price), and I tried to do my best salesman impression when I told him it was the best thing I’d seen by far. He said he’d think about it. I tried not to get my hopes high to avoid any pains of certain disappointment. That car was too good for me, anyway.
A couple of days later, I brought it up again after Dad got home from work, and to my surprise he agreed to drive out with me to look at it. Again, don’t get those hopes high, but hey, this was a really good step. I held my breath as we approximated Metcalf and then the National lot, nervous about how quickly cars turn over. The MR2 was still there. My heart started pounding at the sight of it and I allowed fantasy to take hold.
We got out and I let Dad take the lead in walking to the car and inspecting. A salesman came out and Dad acted indifferent, saying something like, “My kid saw this and wanted to look at it,” while thumbing in my direction. The salesman brought out the keys and Dad and I sat in it. With the doors closed, he looked it over and seemed kind of impressed. “Not bad,” I think was his initial impression. He asked what I thought about it and I laid out my best reasons why I thought it was a good car. He did the test drive this time, and I think he was further impressed.
We came back and the salesman invited us inside to “talk.” It was a cold day. Dad was on guard and suspicious. He typically loathed car lots and car salesmen put him on the defensive. A typical Dad quote was, “The rarest thing on a car lot is a serious buyer.”
We sat down in a makeshift cubicle and the salesman asked what we thought of the car. “It’s alright,” replied Dad tersely. The salesman asked bluntly if we wanted to buy it. I tensed and stared at Dad. This was the moment where I was going to see if this was just to humor me, or whether there really was money to buy me a car. I was as much in the dark about the answer as the salesman. Dad shifted in his chair slightly and said, “Maybe. If the price is right.” Whaaaa? We just crossed another critical step, but now the tennis ball had flown into the salesman’s court and it was his turn to shift in his seat. “Well,” he started, “we might have a little room here. Let me write some numbers down.”
He had a tiny notepad. The car’s particulars were this: 1986, about 47k miles (kind of high for an off-lease I thought at the time), 5spd, roll-up windows. No sunroof or t-tops. He asked Dad what he was willing to pay. Tennis ball lobbed back. Dad shifted again. He stated directly, “I’d pay 4500 for it.” Now my eyeballs must have been bugging out of their sockets! My heart was pounding. Seriously? I thought, Is this really happening? The salesman coughed and said he’d have to take it to his manager. Dad just kind of laughed and nodded.
The salesman left and we could see him with the manager through the glass windows of his office. One of Dad’s comedy bits was of the “I need to go run this by my manager” pantomime, and he started lip reading them through the window: “Well, Ralph, what are you doing this weekend?” “Oh, gee Fred, I think I’m going to the lake.” —and on it went, none of it related in any way to talking about car prices.
The salesman came back with a dejected look on his face, “Well, sorry, we just can’t come down that much.” My dad hopped up immediately from the table and started walking out. I followed in kind. The tennis ball had deflated and stuck to the ground. I was disappointed for sure, but still rather thrilled to have made it this far on a cool car. Buoyed with future optimism.
We had about reached his Cherokee when there came a shout from behind, “Wait!” We stopped and turned to see both salesman and sales manager standing outside the glass door entrance. I swear, in my memory, the sales manager had a rather bemused expression on his face. One of them shouted, “Well, what would you pay?” My dad paused a half-sec, and said, “I think it’s worth about 5 grand.” Without a pause, the sales manager shouted back, “Sold!” I went numb. The tennis ball clearly had bounce left in it and was back in Dad’s court. Match point. Would he follow through? He would. We walked back inside and I couldn’t conceal my smile and elation. Holy shit! This was really happening! After the paperwork and deposit, the keys were given to my dad and he passed them to me as the two guys started closing up the shop for the evening.
Oh wait, did I mention I’d only driven a stick a few times prior to this?
I looked at Dad and said, “I don’t think I can drive this home.”
He shrugged and said, “You can do it.”
No, I didn’t think I could.
“See you at home,” he said, and with that, he was off. The supreme hero and businessman had done his job. I didn’t want to let him down. I didn’t want to wreck this car with my incompetence just getting it home.
It was about a 20min drive to his house from the National lot. I knew my geography enough to plan every back-street route there. My dreaded obstacle was the red stop light on an incline (no hill assist here). I hit only one and thankfully there was no car behind me. I used it as the opportunity to practice slowly letting out/not popping the clutch. Well, I let it out so slowly I must’ve rolled back 30 feet. I had major fears I was going to wreck this car because of my clutch incompetence. But…I got it home, and in the end, Dad was right—the only way to learn to drive a stick is to just do it.
An hour after starting the 20 minute drive, the black MR2 was sitting in the driveway. I sat at the dining room table, futilely trying to read a physics chapter for tomorrow’s test. The test performance the next day would be poor, as I couldn’t help stealing frequent glances out the window at the black beauty. It seemed surreal. Dad, the ardent supporter of my auto dream and excellent negotiator was feeling the heat of an unplanned major expenditure from his wife. I loved him even more for his willingness to take the wrath, but felt guilty and ashamed for creating another rift in their already strained relationship. The argument was bad enough I thought it likely we’d have to take the car back the next day.
They would separate and divorce 3 months later (it wasn’t over the car). It catalyzed on a Friday when he got home from work. Bickering and arguing over who knows what, but a familiar pattern that had stretched for nearly a decade. I was there that day watching when I caught Dad’s eye. He appeared weary and strained. He looked at me, and asked, “Do you want to get out of here?” After all the years of turmoil, I was. “Yeah,” I replied. He told me to pack my stuff and we moved out that evening. We stayed in a hotel for a week and then he found an apartment that formed the base for most of my senior year. Dad got rooked in the divorce and lost much in the way of possessions and future earnings, but we were all way better off for the split. It was one of the most toxic relationships I’ve witnessed. I always wondered if he stuck it out for many years beyond prudence just to prove that his first failed marriage was a fluke.
For both Dad and I, better relationships lay ahead: he in his personal life, me with the MR2.
Coming soon: Part 12: Origami Yota, Recklessness, and Eddie Vedder