by Dave Pelzer
During the eight-mile walk home, streams of cars and trucks zoomed past me—some of which were filled with kids from school who honked their horns as they were driving home or to their summertime retreats—and only intensified my anger and jealousy. By the time I cut through a used car lot, I was so furious that I decided to buy one. I didn’t think. I didn’t analyze. I just knew I needed transportation. And I thought I was grown up enough to make the decision without the approval or advice of my foster parents.
I fully knew I was being taken advantage of by the car salesman with a smooth-talking pitch, an oily pompadour, a baby-blue polyester suit and white vinyl shoes, but yet I didn’t care. I was about to empty over half of my savings for the down payment and make payments of $132 a month for thirty-six months on a car that was nearly six years old and had almost one hundred thousand miles on it. Having worked for a small independent defunct car dealership, washing cars, and being the all-around gofer, I learned the give-and-take of the purchasing transaction, but my stubbornness refused to recede. I just didn’t have the time to dicker. I needed a car that would get me to and from work or any other place I decided to explore. And with a car, instead of my motorcycle, I no longer had to be scared to death every time it rained or whenever the fog became so thick I couldn’t see through the visor of my helmet. I would no longer have to endure near-frostbite conditions when I rode home from work in the middle of the night, or be terrified of someone not paying attention and turning into my lane while I was still in it. My biggest fear was hitting a spot of oil and wiping out at full speed and, with my luck, having someone run over me. A car would make my concerns a thing of the past, as well put me a major step closer to the independence of adulthood.
Less than an hour later, with a crumpled signed contract stuffed in my back pocket and a wide smile from the gold-toothed salesman, I eased from the car lot, taking an immediate left at the next block before carefully parking my car in front of the Turnboughs’ home. My first ride lasted less than two minutes and a distance of under a thousand feet. I just didn’t have time for joyriding. I ran through the empty house, peeled off my school clothes, threw on my work clothes, and frantically scrawled a note that I placed on the refrigerator door: Someone stole my motorcycle, so I bought a car. Don’t worry, I’ll be safe. I know what I’m doing. I’ve given it serious thought. I got it all planned out. It’s okay. See you later after work. Love, Dave. Fearing the Turnboughs’ imminent return—in which they would surely force me to sit down and explain my actions, possibly causing me to be late for work, or worse, return the car—I sprinted outside, eased into my prized Chevy Chevelle, and officially took my first drive.
The next Saturday morning, when I came home from the plastics factory after pulling a twelve-hour shift, Alice and Harold Turnbough gave a short “you’re almost eighteen so we can’t stop you from doing everything, and we only hope you know what you’re getting into” speech. Part of me thought they would really lay into me. I was surprised and relieved that they did not browbeat me, yet, at the same time, a little scared that they knew something I didn’t—as if they were passing on some coded message only maturity could decipher; like some gigantic shoe would fall from the heavens, squashing me, my car, and anything else I did without the Turnboughs’ approval or protection. I only hoped I had not bitten off more responsibility than I could chew.
Exhausted as I was from the whirlwind of the last twenty-four hours, nothing could stop me from grabbing my cleaning supplies and marching outside. I was going to wash my car. Seven hours later, the Chevy looked better than new. I washed the exterior twice before applying two coats of Turtle Wax. The once faded blue vinyl roof now gleamed from five thick applications of Nu-Vinyl restorer. I vacuumed the inside, brushing and scouring every inch with a wet rag; and to get into the slots of the dust-filled heating vents, I used a toothbrush and a wet Q-tip. Only when the interior was soil and dust free, did I then apply the miracle shiner Armour-All on everything—the door handles, the scuffed parking brake, the inside roof, and the steering wheel. The final touch was resetting my scratchy AM radio stations. After taking a long shower, donning my best long-sleeved shirt, and downing a quick glass of orange juice, I triumphantly stepped outside to gaze at my accomplishment. I had a car. It was clean and it was all mine.
Starting the car, I let it idle for a minute as I inhaled my pine-scented air freshener. I then rolled down my window and eased my car down the block as slowly as possible, to provide everyone the opportunity of a proper gaze. Dave Pelzer had a set of wheels.
Informing the Turnboughs through another note, I was ready for my first journey: I was heading to Duinsmoore. The drive south on the Bay Area’s Highway 101 was sheer terror. My only experience driving had been driver’s ed at school and it was months ago when I took the actual test. This was my first time driving for more than five minutes, let alone piloting a vehicle by myself. I stayed in the far right-hand lane, traveling at thirty-five miles per hour until I felt I had mastered the art of automotive control, a mere ten miles later. With all the confidence of a complete idiot, I drastically swung the Chevelle to the left, straddling two lanes at the same time. Once my heartbeat slowed, I kept a death grip on the steering wheel, surprisingly maintaining the speed limit, while trying not to kill anyone in the process. Having slid side to side in the newly shined bench seat, I made a mental note to go a little easy on the Armour-All cleaner next time. As the miles zoomed past, I began to relax. The radio helped dramatically as Joe Walsh screeched his comical, haphazard lifestyle song, “Life’s Been Good To Me So Far.”
As I carefully and slowly drove onto Duinsmoore Way before parking the car on the sidewalk in front of Michael Marsh’s house, every head snapped in my direction. With the window rolled down I didn’t pay any mind when one of the adults shrieked, “Oh my gawd, he has a car!” for I had arrived. With the Chevelle parked and brake set, I felt as if I were an exhausted pilot who had just flown nonstop across the Atlantic Ocean. I sat still as my brain ran through my self-imposed shutdown sequence. Getting out of the car, I met Paul and David, who had rushed over to inspect my prize. Remembering the line I had used when they had first seen my minibike, and with my arms folded across my chest, I leaned against the front end of the car and uttered, “Pretty cool, eh?”
Paul instantly rattled off a string of inquires. “Does it have a V-8?”
“No, straight six,” I fired back, matching his tone.
“Exhaust headers?”
“No.”
“Power steering?”
“Yep,” I said, nodding my head.
“Power brakes?”
“No.”
“FM radio? Eight-track tape player?”
“Only AM. It has an automatic transmission, a spare tire, a set of emergency roadside flares, the tires are almost new, and it’s all mine,” I proudly stated.
“Cool,” David smiled as he rubbed his hands together, “road flares. We could do a lot of damage with those.”
I raised a finger cutting David off. “Don’t even think about it. A car is not a toy. This isn’t a minibike, and those days of… of reckless abandonment are over,” I preached with self-assurance.
“Now this,” The Sarge began as he strolled over with a can of Coors clutched in his talons, “this is a crisis of sheer magnitude, far more deeper, far more sinister than Watergate.” Lowering his sunglasses The Sarge continued to tease, “Tell me this ‘Detroit Gas Guzzler’ belongs to one of your orphan foster youth’s cousin’s next-door neighbor’s foreign exchange student’s friend. Tell me you’re out joyriding. Tell me anything. Just don’t tell me it’s yours, my coordinately-challenged friend.”
With a wide smile and a wave of my hand I confessed, “It most certainly is. Lock, stock, and a quart of motor oil.”
The Sarge then raised his glasses to cover his eyes before uttering, “If I were chancellor of the Golden State, I would tar and feather the swine who graded you competent to obtain a license. God help us all.”
Dan’s only concern was, “You know this is a major responsibility.” I nodded in agreement. Opening the hood before checking for any leaks under the car, Mr. Brazell gave me his approval. Rubbing his hand against the body, Dan smiled. “You had the car detailed?”
“No, sir,” I boasted, “did the entire car myself. Came home from workin’ a long shift, washed and waxed the car, and took a quick shower so I could make the drive down to see you,” I proudly said to my mentor.
“All right,” Dan laughed as he gave me a pat on the back, “just next time get some sleep before you slide behind the wheel, okay?” Over the next hour with just Dan and me in his garage, he went over in various details the dos and don’ts about driving and the standard in which he expected me to take care of the vehicle. Although I had heard the similar lectures about safety and the rules of the road from my instructor at driver’s ed and from Mr. Turnbough, Dan’s sincerity and indispensable knowledge of automobiles made me absorb everything all the more. As Mr. Brazell went into detail about simple but technical aspects of vehicle maintenance, I suddenly realized it was the first time Dan and I were alone and how he addressed me more as an adult rather than some annoying chaotic child, as he did when we first met. Walking away from Dan, I felt as if I had just attended a semester of college.
“So, did my dad give you the big lecture bit?” Paul jabbed as he raised he eyebrows.
Opening the hood of my car so I could look and remember the different aspects of the engine before I forgot, I replied to Paul, “No, he was pretty cool. I wish I was his apprentice so I could learn more from him. There’s much more to a car than just driving it.”
“He’s not a god!” Paul bellowed.
I gently closed the enormous hood, nodded at Paul, and kept my mouth shut. Over the last few visits whenever David or I said anything about Mr. Brazell, especially if we praised him, Paul would sometimes seem to tense up or shoot off like a rocket. Having lived my early childhood with a father that wasn’t there for my brothers or me, and then living in so many foster homes, I could sense the real thing when I saw it. To me Dan was not only around the same age as my biological father, but, more important, lived by a set of values I greatly admired. Mr. Brazell was everything I had so desperately craved my father to be.
With Mr. Brazell’s words still ringing in my ears and wanting to act more like an adult, I laid down my very own rules; how others were to behave if they wanted to ride with me. “Now listen up,” I announced in a deep voice. “There is to be no goofing around when we’re in the car, none whatsoever. Everyone wears a seat belt. No yelling, no distractions of any kind.”
I found myself running out of steam when David laughed. “Dude, you can’t be serious, man!… You’re the Pelz!”
“Not anymore,” I quickly countered, trying to act more than my age. “A car is not a toy. No drinking, no eating, no swearing in the car, and if we go cruising… you two should help pitch in with the gas.”
“We gotta pay to ride with you?!” Paul shouted. “Who turned you into a cheapskate?”
“Do you have any idea what it costs in gas, oil, car insurance, and the amount of maintenance to keep a car in pristine condition, hmm? The tires alone…” I stopped midsentence as I discovered myself regurgitating the same “it takes a lot to keep a car running” speech that my foster father had given me before and Paul’s father just moments ago. Part of me wanted nothing more than for the three of us to race off with the windows rolled down, music blaring, and just ride, but yet with all the time I had spent on my car and all the lectures, coupled with my lack of experience behind the wheel, I wanted to take things as slowly and carefully as possible.
After Paul and David received permission from their parents, the three of us idled our way down the block. Miles later I continued to keep the car ten miles below the speed limit, until we pulled over to a run down Foster Freeze hamburger stand. “Man,” Paul whined, “you drive worse than my mother.”
“If The Sarge were here he’d say ‘this is a sad state of affairs,’” Howard commented. “Come on, it’s Saturday! We got a car! We’re young! We’re bulletproof! And you’re driving like Pa Kettle from the Ozarks!”
“Have you two ever seen The Highway of Death?” I retaliated between sips of my soda. My naive friends didn’t respond. “I didn’t think so. Once you see that film…”
“Wait a minute,” David exclaimed, “is that the film where they stage those car crashes that make you throw up so you won’t drink and drive? And all the while they have that guy who preaches in a low voice about ‘driving takes responsibility, be a responsible driver, drive responsibly’?” David emphasized using his fingers for quotations. “Man, I hear that film is so cool. Did anybody lose it in your class?”
Shaking his head, Paul informed David in detail that the film used fake blood, mannequins, and parts of dead animals for the more dramatic scenes.
Losing grip on my “mature” act, I lowered my defenses and returned to my old Duinsmoore ways and announced, “Heed my words, young squires: Once you endure The Highway of Death, your life will forever be transformed. Now, let’s see what this baby can do!” The three of us looked at each other and slapped our hands together, slamming the huge metal doors behind us. As I drove the car by my old high school, I found myself more relaxed and confident than I had been just a few minutes ago. The overwhelming pressure of worrying about responsible driving gave way to the moment of just being with Paul and David.
As the three of us slowly cruised through the streets, glancing at the beautiful estates, we became lost, ending up at the end of a dirt road. Careful not to dirty the car, I cautiously tried to back up, but the car refused to move. So I tried shifting the car in forward gear. As I carefully applied more pressure to the gas pedal, nothing seemed to happen. Frustrated and embarrassed in front of my friends, I mashed down on the accelerator. The engine roared to life. The Chevelle kicked up a wave of loose dirt as the car bolted away. The sensation was like piloting a rocket plane. When we finally reached the entrance to the paved street, I skidded the car to a stop, then stared at the cloud of dust behind. From the backseat, David leaned over to pat me on the back. “Cool man, did you mean to do that?”
“Why, of course,” I responded
“Can you do it again?” David pleaded.
“I could, but…” I hesitated.
“He didn’t mean to spin out that way. And I say he can’t do it again. No way!” Paul challenged.
I turned away from Paul and stared out the windshield. As much as I fought it, I was about to break a long list of my own set of cardinal rules, which above all included my rigid standard of keeping the car from the slightest speck of dirt or debris. But the surge of excitement and sheer power I felt from my fingers being wrapped around the wheel was beyond anything I had ever experienced. “All right, roll up your windows and strap in tight, boys. We’re goin’ for a ride,” I advised a second before I floored the accelerator. For a moment the three of us felt a slight shudder as a stream of dirt and loose rock kicked up from behind the car. I barely eased off the gas pedal when the car shot forward. As the Chevy quickly picked up speed, the end of the road suddenly filled the front windshield. It was then I became unsure of my driving capabilities. As I drifted slightly to the right while easing off the accelerator, Paul and David declared their fear of an imminent crash.
“This isn’t funny! Slow down, slow down!” Paul shouted beside me, while David broke out in laughter. When the last mailbox whizzed by, I took my foot off the accelerator, counted to one, and simultaneously stomped on the brake pedal as I swung the car wildly to the left.
Stealing a glance from the rearview mirror, I could see David’s body slide over from the inertia. In the midst of everything, I made yet another mental note about reducing my next Armour-All application.
Recalling a technique—do not overcorrect in a skid—that I had learned from driver’s ed, I let go of the steering wheel for a split second, let it spin f
reely in front of me, then grabbed it again with my fumbling fingers. When I felt the back end of the car swing to the left, I again punched the gas pedal, which propelled the car in the opposite direction of where we just came.
Even though I had visualized everything in my mind and had salivated with glee whenever I had seen the same stunt performed with complete ease in hundreds of action films, what my excited passengers didn’t know, what they failed to realize when seeing my clenched teeth, was that I was consumed with terror. Not for driving down a dirt road at breakneck speed, nor turning my car in a teapot-sized space, but that I was now in the middle of a thick brown dust storm that I had just created, and I hadn’t the vaguest clue of where I was heading. And as if I didn’t have enough anxiety to keep my pulse racing, the back end of the heavy Chevelle kept swaying from side to side, forcing me to counter the oscillation by counter-correcting the steering wheel, which I discovered only amplified the problem. By sheer luck, to the left of my window I caught a glimpse of another mailbox streak past. It was only then that I felt I was indeed heading in the right direction. Unless, of course, with my luck, I had overcorrected and swung the vehicle a full 360 degrees. Either way, in a matter of seconds the three of us would indeed test the fate of the gods to find out how truly bulletproof we were. When I saw beams of bright filtered light like rays from heaven above ahead of me, I eased off the accelerator and brought the car to a stop at the entrance to the street.