“Benjy, Wheeler said the letter wouldn’t come for another month. You were there when the head of the Asperger’s Program said that.”
“It might come,” he insisted. “I can stay here by myself while you get the car.”
I sighed. Benjy desperately wanted to live on his own; it was a point of pride for him as a “different but not disabled” person. But without someone around to remind Benjy of the daily necessities of life, such as taking a shower or his meds when he was supposed to, those necessities often didn’t get done. That was why Wheeler was such a good fit for him; in addition to giving Benjy an excellent college education, their special Asperger’s program would help him achieve his dream of living independently.
“If I can go away to college by myself, why can’t I stay at home by myself?” he asked. He fixed his big brown eyes on me in a determined gaze to drive his point home. “I can live by myself, Dad,” he declared. “I’m nineteen years old. I’m practically an adult.”
He had a point. In his own home, where he already had detailed checklists and schedules that he followed every day, he probably could live by himself for a few days. And if there was a problem, Mavis could come over. She was always volunteering to do that; she’d done it while I’d stayed with Annie at the hospital. So why not?
I knew very well why not. Because ever since I had become a single parent, I had worried myself to a frazzle about everything having to do with Benjy. I was overprotective to a fault. With Annie gone, nothing bad would happen to our son. I wasn’t letting her down. Not on my watch!
Still, he was right. His logic was impeccable. He was growing up; maybe it was time to loosen up? Annie would say he could do it; she always saw the positive. “Let him try,” she would say. “Let him stretch. Better to have tried and failed than never to have tried at all.” Why couldn’t I think that way? He had his checklists. He was a responsible kid—more responsible than most—even if he did have Asperger’s. Perhaps he was more responsible because of his Asperger’s. He wouldn’t hold a wild party or trash the house like a lot of other kids might. He’d just follow his regular weekend routines: play his NASCAR video game, watch movies and TV, read a book, and do his homework. And it would be great, everything would be fine, he’d love it, and it would boost his confidence in himself and his life skills before he went off to Wheeler. He would stretch. It would be a positive learning experience. Everything would be fine.
On the first Saturday after the end of my triumphant eBay auction, I flew to Florida to claim my prize. I estimated it would take three days for me to drive the Corvair the thousand miles home, assuming one or two breakdowns, which I considered inevitable. Benjy hoped it would take longer; I’d overloaded the fridge with his favorite chicken tenders, apples, and bottled water. National Treasure and all his other favorite DVDs were ready to go. He was itching to deliver Denny Hamlin another crushing defeat on the NASCAR racetrack. He was so excited that he had even agreed, grudgingly, to my insistence that Mavis stop in and check on him once a day. “It’s not negotiable, Benjy,” I said as I prepped the Mother of All Lists for him to complete each day I was gone.
“I’m about to go away to college, Dad!” he protested, feeling insulted. “I’ve lived by myself before! I know how! I don’t need help!”
“Benjy, those were summer camps and programs where you had an adult counselor. We do this my way or I don’t go. I’ll get the car shipped here instead. Besides, staffers at Wheeler will do the same checking up on you when you’re there, so you might as well get used to it.”
“Dad, some travel experts recommend that you check in for a domestic flight two hours or more before its scheduled departure,” he then informed me, practically shoving me out the door.
I made my flight, needless to say. Now, in the spring steam bath of Fort Lauderdale, I exited the airport terminal along with hordes of spring breakers around Benjy’s age. Their bacchanalia had already begun; many of the teens were sloppily drunk, yanking down each other’s shorts and lighting up cigarettes. Watching these “normal” kids behave badly annoyed me, until they reminded me of what a terrific child I had left behind at home, and how blessed I was to have him. When I was mired in the daily challenges of raising Benjy, I sometimes forgot that. I was grateful to these kids for helping me remember.
Wally Krawchek, my Corvair’s seller, was not difficult to spot among the rowdy teens; his white hair and deep tan helped identify him, but he was also the only person in the terminal with a shirt, hat, and folded umbrella all adorned with Corvairs. “They’re callin’ for afternoon thunderstorms,” he explained about the umbrella after we’d warmly greeted each other. “I don’t usually drive a Corvair when they predict rain, and they predict afternoon thunderstorms all the time, so that’s why yours has low miles.” We strolled to the parking garage elevator and he pushed the button. “Not driving in the rain—that’s also why your car has minimal rust. As you’ll see, I’m a stickler for accuracy in my auction descriptions.”
“No worries,” I assured him. “I know it’s just as you described. You had me at president of the Florida Corvair Club. That’s exactly what I needed to hear. I’m sure you did a wonderful job restoring it.” There were only a few wispy clouds: no rain today. Perfect driving weather.
“I take the CORSA creed and my oath of office seriously,” he stressed, extremely seriously. “I promote the Corvair hobby and recruit new people to it. I take Corvairs to car shows, educate people on the car, and personally do as much as I can to get Corvairs back on the road. I have refreshed nine Corvairs so far—sold six and still have three I’m working on. So what I think we got here is the perfect match of the buyer who is new to the Corvair hobby and the Corvair that will keep him in the hobby.” He grinned, pleased.
After the elevator came and we entered, Wally pushed the button for the top level. He was taller and thinner than me, yet had short, thick fingers, with grease in the ridges of his calluses. From working on cars, I guessed. He hadn’t looked me in the eye yet. He was a retired engineer, which made sense; he seemed more comfortable with machines than with people.
“Just so there’s no misunderstanding,” he continued, still very serious, “you used the term ‘restore.’ I did not ‘restore’ the car. I ‘refreshed’ it. There is an important difference. I refreshed all the mechanicals. You’ll have to restore the paint and body work. I believe I was clear on that in the auction.”
“Yes, you were, and I understand,” I assured him. “I didn’t mean to imply that I was expecting a fully restored car. I was sloppy in my language and didn’t use the correct term. Sorry.”
“That’s fine. Now that you’re a member of the Corvair Brotherhood, you’ll learn it all soon enough.” He smiled, but still didn’t look me in the eye.
I liked the sound of “Corvair Brotherhood.” Like I had been inducted into a secret society.
“Got the repair manuals?” he asked as the elevator slowed.
I confessed that I didn’t have them yet.
“It’s a forty-five-year-old car. You’ll need those manuals. You work on cars much?”
I confessed that I didn’t work on cars much.
“You will now.” He smiled for the first time. “It’s a forty-five-year-old car,” he repeated.
The elevator doors opened and we stepped out onto the roof deck. Which was empty—save for one vehicle.
My new Corvair shimmered in the hot Florida sun. Jet black with its white convertible top up, the reflection off its polished chrome three-bar wire wheel covers was blinding. I grinned like a Cheshire cat.
“Well?” Wally prodded. “What do you think?”
My grin became a giggle. “Your photos didn’t do it justice. It’s gorgeous.”
He looked down at his shoes and chuckled, pleased. “I always thought it was gorgeous, too,” he admitted. “Didn’t want to oversell it, though. Couldn’t sleep at night if I did.”
Of course, as the car’s new owner, I was highly prejudiced. But even o
bjective critics loved GM’s exterior redesign of the Corvair for the 1965 model year—what became known as the “Late Model” Corvair. In my Google search, I uncovered Car and Driver magazine’s eminent writer David E. Davis gushing:
[T]he Corvair is — in our opinion — the most important new car of the entire crop of ’65 models, and the most beautiful car to appear in this country since before World War II…. When the pictures of the ’65 Corvair arrived in our offices, the man who opened the envelope actually let out a great shout of delight and amazement on first seeing the car, and in thirty seconds the whole staff was charging around, each wanting to be the first to show somebody else, each wanting the vicarious kick of hearing that characteristic war-whoop from the first-time viewer.
Two score and five years later, I knew just how that guy in the Car and Driver office felt. The Late Model design had not lost its looks. I could still see, as GM’s seductive ads purred, the “shape that blends elegance with excitement.” The exterior’s gently rounded fenders, bisected by crisp lines, inspired by Raymond Loewy’s famed design of the classic Coke bottle, would even at its advanced age win any beauty pageant over nearly all of today’s cookie-cutter cars, including my boring Camry. Black, white, chrome—to me, this Corvair was an Art Deco sculpture on wheels. I understood now how my father had fallen in love with his Late Model back in the day—I was falling in love myself.
I inspected the car’s surface for flaws and found all the rust spots, dings, faded paint, and road rash that Wally’s photos had revealed, but no surprises. I opened the rear hatch; the engine looked as if it had just been installed on the assembly line. The interior wasn’t quite that fresh, but still did not disappoint. The modern front seats had headrests and integrated shoulder and lap belts, with no rips or tears in the cloth. The carpet was new. The chrome window frames and horn button were pitted from aging, hardly a major issue.
On the flight down, I had braced myself for disappointment. Instead, I found myself over the moon, and moved by this encounter with a man of such high honor who refused to oversell his beloved car. Why couldn’t life always be so satisfying?
“Ready to take her for a spin?” Wally asked.
“Should we do the paperwork first? Signing over the title and all?”
Wally eyed me with suspicion. “Don’t you want to drive it first? Make sure you’re satisfied?” I saw a thought cross his face: How could this guy not want to drive the car before he signs on the dotted line? Was I part of some elaborate scam that he needed to run from this instant?
“Before I drive it,” I warned Wally, “I have a confession to make.”
He looked stricken, fixing his gaze on me at last. His Scam Alert was flashing Bright Red. “You don’t have the money?” he asked. “You changed your mind?”
“No, no. It’s just that I’ve never driven a Corvair on the open road. Only in an empty parking lot. With my learner’s permit, and my father teaching me to drive.”
“Really?” Wally exploded in relief. “Seriously?” Scam Alert reduced to Yellow.
“And I’ve only ridden in two of them.” I told him about Dad’s Corvairs.
“Pity that some people go through life driving nothing but ordinary cars.” He tossed me the keys. “You’re about to have all kinds of fun.”
“Before we go, I should call my son. Tell him I arrived, check in on him.” Wally gestured for me to go ahead. As I dialed my cell phone, he kneeled down to stalk dust that had dared come to rest on the Vair’s black paint.
Benjy answered just before the answering machine picked up. “HELLO!” he bellowed.
“Benjy, it’s Dad. I’m in Florida. I made it to the airport in plenty of time.”
“Okay.”
“How are you?”
“Fine.”
“Did you make lunch?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“The usual. Chicken tenders.”
“Take your afternoon meds?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Well, I’m standing beside our new Corvair, and it’s gorgeous.” Wally beamed at this. “I hope you’ll like it cuz I sure do. I think we’ll have a lot of fun in it.”
“It’s just an old car, Dad,” said Benjy, not bothering to hide his disdain.
“It’s not old,” I corrected. “It’s classic.”
“It’s old, Dad,” he corrected right back. “Old is not classic.” Always the Truth Teller.
I sighed. “So. Anything else?”
“No.”
“Okay. Well, I’ll sign off so I can start driving home. If nothing goes wrong, I should be home Monday night or Tuesday. Is that still okay?”
“Okay.”
I heard a boozy chant well up from the teenage revelers over at the terminal impatiently waiting for their hotel bus. “Benjy,” I said into the phone, “you are a really, really great kid, and I’m proud of you. I don’t tell you that often enough. I’ll call you in a few hours, okay?”
He said nothing, then asked, “Dad?”
“Yes, Benjy.”
“The letter from Wheeler?”
“It’ll come in a few more weeks.”
“It came today.”
Hearing Benjy’s voice, my heart sank and my knees buckled. I winced hard, as if that would make the bad news go away.
“It wasn’t all we had hoped for,” Benjy said flatly, yet with a disappointment that was deafening.
“Benjy, it’s okay,” I told him, even though I knew it wasn’t. How could I be a thousand miles away from him at a time like this? What kind of father was I, anyway?
“I didn’t get in,” he said, his voice cracking. Benjy usually didn’t display much emotion, but when he did cry, it was a wounded howl. Even Wally heard it; when he saw the pain in my face, he took a few steps away to give me privacy.
“Benjy, Wheeler is not the only college….”
“It is the only college for me, Dad!” he wailed.
“This is going to be all right, Benjy. I mean that. And I’m going to get there as soon as I can, okay?” He didn’t respond, so I repeated. “Okay? Benjy? You there?”
“There’s no place for me,” he said softly. “No place anywhere.”
“There is a place for you and we will find it, Benjy,” I told him, trying to hold back my own tears. “I’ve never been surer of anything in my life.”
Benjy was silent. Finally, he said, “I’m too different.” His wailing erupted again, louder this time.
As I tried to calm Benjy down, I kicked the driver’s side front tire of the Corvair again and again and again, violently scuffing the tire polish Wally had so meticulously applied. He looked over, but I waved him away.
Why was I here buying this lousy Deathmobile? What was I thinking? I couldn’t stand to look at it. I didn’t want it anymore.
I needed to get home. Now.
CHAPTER 4
After I explained what happened to Wally, he offered to cancel our deal. He said he could try to sell the car to someone else, and if it was for a lower price, I could make up the difference. He was being more than fair.
With the spring sun now in full retreat, I called the airlines. But spring break meant everything was booked going into or out of all the nearby airports until at least Monday, two days away. “Maybe there’s a bus from here, or a train?” I wondered aloud to Wally. “Or I could rent a car here and just drive the wheels off it until I get home.”
“Why rent a car when you just bought one?” Wally asked. “You’ll be home in time for lunch tomorrow if you drive all night.”
With great skepticism, I first eyed Wally and then the Corvair. “This car? You think this car will make it a thousand miles in less than one full day?”
“I can’t guarantee it,” he said. “I couldn’t guarantee a rented car either. But, heck, yes, I’d bet on this car over a rental car. This car will make it.” He fished in the Corvair’s glove box and found a booklet. “And if it breaks down, this is the CORSA membership roster.
You call me any hour of the night. At dawn, I’ll call the CORSA member nearest to you. If he can’t help you, I’ll call the next one. You may have to wait a few hours. But you will get help if you need it.”
He eyed me proudly. Still, I was skeptical. Very skeptical. “In June,” he went on, “I’m driving my ’69 Vair fourteen hundred miles to the CORSA annual convention. There’s a bunch of us caravanning from Florida. We do it every year. Most every car makes it, and if one does break down we fix it and keep going. It’s no big thing.”
“But you know how to fix these,” I protested. “You carry parts and tools. I worked in a service station once, but I only pumped gas. I know which end of the hammer hits the nail, but that’s about it.” I walked around the car, shaking my head. “I was going to take three days at least. I figured two breakdowns—minimum.”
Wally raised himself up, squinted his eyes, and fixed me with a glare. Clearly, I’d wounded his pride. “You’re falling into the popular misconception that Corvairs are defective, unsafe junk. That’s bull. That’s an unusual way to start your Corvair hobby. I strongly suggest that you forget what you think you know about this car, about it being a piece of junk or a killer car. It’s just not so.”
“All right,” I said. “I am opening my mind.”
Wally looked around the roof; we were the only two people in sight. He lowered his voice anyway. “Look,” he confided. “This is too much information, maybe, but I’m queerer than a three dollar bill, see, not that I go out of my way to advertise it. But most everybody in the Corvair club knows it and they still elected me President of the Corvair Club of Florida. Which may be a big joke to most people, but really is a big honor in the Corvair world, okay? And you know why they did that? Cuz Corvair people got an open mind. They have to, because this car is different from every other boring car on the road. Ed Cole, the engineer who designed the Corvair, he opened his mind and completely re-imagined the small car. This is a unique car, maybe the most innovative American car of the past fifty years. Sure, it has quirks and flaws, like any new technology, and they cut some corners to save some money because they had to design most everything from scratch, and it’ll never win a drag race against a big fat V-8. But Nader was wrong; when government and university scientists studied the Corvair forwards and back, they found it as safe as or safer than comparable cars. It got a bum rap that it never recovered from, and no one knows or cares. It’s reliable and safe and cheap to operate and a lot of the people I’ve met in one are pretty darn special. They love it because it’s different. And so do I.” His eyes welled up.
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