Auto Biography XV

“A Fine Set of Wheels”

This photo is not the photo I would have used for this post; however, the shot I would have used was never taken. It’s forever etched in my mind, though. If a picture is worth a thousand words, put up your feet while I try to describe the scenario on the night before we traded Jules for a new Volkswagen.

Our dear friend Treena has a professional grade camera and offered to take some photos for posterity. We don’t have many pictures of our beloved Camaro. What we do have are “working” snaps, pictures taken on road trips or after weather events like the Blizzard of ’96. We never did do the photo op we talked about when he was brand new. That’s why, in the shots Treena took, there’s a dent in his right flank and the hood on the driver’s door mirror is still wearing its factory primer (we never got it painted after the lens went phht!—but that’s another story). All the same, we took immaculate care of his motor and safety features; he had over 160,000 kms on him when we let him go, but he still ran like a dream.

I digress.

On his last night with us, I drove Treena up to Craigdarroch Castle and watched her do her photographer thing. She circled the car, snapping this way and that, taking cool background shots, artsy angle shots, and whatever else shots she felt would do justice to her unwitting subject. Through it all, Jules stood quietly, not posing precisely, but behaving like a gentleman for the lady. I wish I’d thought to bring my own camera, not to try my hand at emulating Treena, but to catch the moment when Jules ceased to be an inanimate object and became, for a brief instant, a living, breathing creature.

I was standing behind and to the right of the car as she crouched to get this shot. Treena is a delicate little thing, a fairy child with hollow bones, who might be blown into the trees by an aggressive gust of wind. Jules was coiled like panther, muscles bunched and thrumming, as she hunkered by his nose and lifted her camera. In that moment, in the mystic evening light, he looked about to pounce ... but then he lowered his head and let her take his picture. Seeing the two of them in that frame created a delightful memory which, unfortunately, I can only share through these inadequate words, but which will stay with me for the rest of my days.

The Hoodie Incident

People are funny, eh? You can never tell what drives someone to offer an opinion or observation, or a plainly idiotic statement. One thing is sure: our perceptions are coloured by our individual experience. Fear and prejudice can wring the most curious responses ... though, admittedly, some folks are simply out to create a reaction.

Take the hoodie incident.

When shopping for Ter’s birthday, I bought her a pair of silly socks from Sugar & Cotton. Since then, I’ve been getting promos from their site. Cool cutlery, pretty jewellery, glittery scarves ... and an asymmetrical hoodie that I think is awesome in a Star Wars, Sithy kind of way. (The Sith, for the sadly uninitiated, are the villains in a galaxy far, far away; villains to whom I am partial for reasons that yet elude rational explanation.) Each time I log into FB—which is not all that often—an ad for this hoodie pops up and finally, unable to resist the notion of sporting a functional garment given a wicked cool twist, I ordered one. In black, of course.

Then I noticed the FB comments. I pay little attention to reviews, choosing instead to trust my own sense of whether or not something is worth my time and/or money, but sprinkled among those comments of “love it!” or “can get it cheaper here” were a couple of scathing observations that likened this trendy runway item to, of all things, a birka. A birka? Seriously? I took a second to shake off that one, then caught further comments along similar lines. A sort of religious tussle almost ensued as people took sides ... arguing about radical Islam tainting fashion design.

Okay, maybe I’m missing something. I hope I would have a bit of an issue myself with a frivolous industry building on a practice that oppresses women. If I thought for an instant that the designer of this item was less a Star Wars fan and more a radical Islamic nutball, I probably wouldn’t have bought one. But I don’t think that. The possibility never even occurred to me. That it occurred to someone—anyone—else is a show of hypersensitivity that may either be connected to past experience, or it may just be a guy with a biased intent to cause an uproar.

I don’t live under a rock. I am aware of global events and social upheaval and cultural oppression and political hot potatoes ... yet when I saw this hoodie, all I thought was “Cool!” I didn’t dig deeper because I didn’t feel the need. You can call me shallow for missing what’s apparently obvious to others. You may call the dissenters socially conscious and applaud them, but if we all relax, we might also see this for what it really is:

A hoodie.

If It Ain’t Baroque ...

Whenever I see the title of JS Bach’s “Air on the G String”, all I can think is how chilly it must feel.

If the radio is set to a baroque station, I know that Ter has been ironing. This cracks me up because ... actually, I’m not sure why it’s so funny, but her choice of laundry music does make me smile.

This is how seriously I perceive the music of my favourite century. Despite my fondness for the 1600s, it seems I don’t much care for the tuneage of the time. I don’t mind it, of course, but I won’t play it myself unless I’m writing a piece relevant to the period. Strangely enough, the soundtrack for “Versailles” isn’t reflective of the century, either. It smacks more of present day Ibiza than baroque Europe (though I’d probably get the CD anyway, even if it was crammed with Bach, Handel and a Hallelujah Host of Others).

Baroque music makes for good ambient noise, however. One of my cultured co-workers (she plays both classical guitar and Celtic harp—the talent pool at work is proof that there’s no money to be made in the arts) has a radio in her cubicle. Wedged between offices as she is, and placed on a high traffic corner, she finds it easier to concentrate on her job if Seattle’s National Public Radio is playing in the background. On a crazy day in any workweek, I’ll speed from my office, where the playlist ranges from classic Motown to cool jazz to 70s rock, and be rushing to the copy room when the lilting strains of a baroque violin will stop me in my tracks. Sometimes, I’ll even drop into my co-worker’s guest chair. When she looks inquiringly at me, I’ll say, “Just taking a civility break.”

Such music may be that which was claimed to soothe the savage breast. It certainly calms me in the midst of a hectic workday. It inspires images of perfectly aligned gardens, fashionable ladies and stylish gentlemen, all well-mannered and treating each other so cordially that it’s almost offensive. Better times and better men, yes?

Heck, no. The French Revolution might not have happened had the aristocracy been as elegant and ordered as the music of the day. Perhaps it’s merely an example of paradox sprung from a composer’s will to hide the truth of society at the time. Art these days is a more accurate reflection of where we’re at—a film parade of serial killers, political extremists, spies, renegades in fast cars, and superheroes sworn to save us from annihilating ourselves; music from angry children grown into angry adults, and underage girls shaking their collective booty as if a show of skin is empowering. Culture these days isn’t terribly cultured at all. Between the honesty in present day art and the hypocrisy in baroque composition, that civility break looks pretty darned good.

Squirrely

As soon as I woke up on Saturday morning, my mind started screaming. “What about this?” “What about that?” “How are you going to ... ?” “When are you going to ... ?” It was like being in bed with a hysterical toddler. Finally, I gave up and got up to discover Ter was already up for pretty much the same reason. Our individual issues might have differed, but the mental histrionics were identical.

I am grateful to her for many things, but our ongoing conversation—now in its thirty-somethingth year—is always in the top five. Quite simply, we talk. We share and sympathize and advise and caution and help each other to feel better because monsters are more easily faced with a wingman than by yourself, and sometimes just naming the beast to someone you trust will neutralize it.

Imagination is not always a good thing. Oh, those sparks of inspiration can pave the way to joy, happiness and creative climax. They can also drive me to the depths of despair. I don’t just tell stories, you see. I tell myself stories. I might be mildly anxious about something, but given too long a rein, my imagination can make it into a category five catastrophe.

It’s all about perspective.

A couple of weeks ago, Ter disappeared into the Ocean Room. She retreats to that room when seeking solace from the daily grind, the (real) toddler downstairs, the loud-mouthed roommate, and/or her own incredibly powerful intellect. After a while, I joined her for tea. We chatted a little, then she told me about the aforementioned perils of imagination running down a dark road. Turned out she’d been fretting a bit more than usual about something—okay, many things, but that’s how she rolls—and it had occurred to her that, since we each create our own reality, if she continued to indulge a particular line of thought, disaster was almost inevitable. Once checked, however, she was able to turn her imagination back toward the light. By the time I came into the room, she felt stronger and more positive about resolving what was bothering her.

Then she told me what the Universe had presented as an example to put it in perspective.

After mulling the imagination thing for a bit, she’d got up from her chair and glanced out the front window. It was late afternoon and the sun had moved behind the house, and the shadow she glimpsed crawling up the neighbours’ van was a honking huge critter that looked about to swallow the vehicle whole. What the hell is that? she thought, bug-eyed on adrenaline. Then she saw what cast the shadow:

It was a little squirrel, running up a tree.

Think about it.

Auto Biography XIV

“Jules”

Mum: “Jings, Betsy.”

Older older brother: “It looks like it’s going 100 miles an hour and it's standing still!”

Management co-worker: “Clearly the admin staff are making too much money.”

To this day, I don’t know how much our brand new Camaro cost. I do remember that the purchase process was excruciating. I went to three banks and was told at each that I wasn’t a good risk because I had no collateral and the car wouldn’t be worth what I was paying for it. (That’s when I learned that loans are only given to people who don’t need the money.)

I don’t even remember how we wound up at the dealership in the summer of 1996, perusing a shiny automatic that looked green from one angle, blue from another, and purple at a third. The colour was called “mystic teal”. The sales dude was called Anthony. From the instant we set foot on the lot, he was on us like white on rice. A likeable young chap, determined to get us the car of our dreams. Well, of Ter’s dreams. She was the Camaro freak – but if I had to own a Chev, the body style in 1996 was my first choice. The old Camaro was starting its death spiral, so my sole condition for upgrading was that a replacement have no previous owner. No abused lease rejects, no neglected pre-owned wheels spiffed up for suckers. I wanted to manage a new vehicle from scratch.

That new vehicle eluded us for weeks because of the “no collateral” clause. We test-drove a less-expensive Cavalier, but who were we kidding? It was Camaro or bust. Eventually, we told Anthony thanks but no thanks and drove our crotchety old wheels back home.

The gods—and Anthony—were not about to let us go, however. Some days after bidding Mystic Teal a final farewell, the phone rang. “I’ve found two new Camaros for you, ladies, but I know you won’t want one of them.”

I dared to ask why not.

The kid replied, “It’s silver.”

Oh, yeah. Aside from “no previous owner”, my other sole condition was “not silver”. (I still don’t understand the appeal of silver cars.) “Okay,” I said, “what’s the other one?”

“Black.”

I sighed. “We’ll be right out.”

Driving down Cook Street, we were absolutely silent. I was fed up thinking about how to get a car we clearly couldn’t afford, until my little voice murmured the very words that Ter spoke aloud as she turned left onto Bay Street.

“We could call him ‘Jules’.”

Well, that was akin to kissing the bear’s nose. Once he had a name, he was ours. Or, rather, we were his.

The financial whiz at the dealership wheedled a deal with one of the banks that had originally told me to sod off—this after I refused, at the age of 35, to ask my dad to co-sign a loan—they gave us a handful of clams for Ter’s old Camaro, and the two of us left work early to collect our new toy on the first day of autumn in 1996.

The car was being shipped from the mainland and hadn’t arrived yet. I will always remember sitting at the dealership, looking out the plate glass window at the traffic streaming along the highway. Suddenly, there he was: sleek, black, shiny; a panther prowling up the outside lane, a tawny yellow eye blinking right as he turned off the main road. “There it is,” Anthony announced “your new Camaro.”

Taking possession of a brand new sportscar is a joy unlike any other. A new mother doesn’t feel as much for her newborn as I felt on first glance at our fabulous, glossy, witchy-eyed ride. I was practically salivating. I’ve no idea what Ter was thinking or how she felt ... but have I mentioned that our fresh-from-the-shell baby was a standard shift and she had learned on an automatic? That’s right, folks. Ter did not know how to drive a stick.

But, in typical Ter fashion, she was fearless in her enthusiasm to learn. The very next night, we were in the mall parking lot, she behind the wheel, me having kittens in the passenger seat—to this day, I don’t know how I taught her to work the gears but I must have done something right because she was soon cruising in expanding circles around the lot. “Let me take it home,” she said, bubbling over with pride at her mastery of clutch and gears. (In truth, she did pick it up pretty fast.)

Erm, ahhhh, uhhhh ... “Okay,” I croaked.

So, of course she chose the route that featured what we refer to as “the Fat Choy Hill”—an intersection at the crest of a 40% grade with a Chinese market perched on one corner. It would have been fine had the light stayed with us, but no, as we approached, green turned to amber turned to red. I, who had once rolled my dad’s Toyota about twelve feet back on a gentle slope, recommended downshifting to keep the wheels in motion, to no avail. And, yes, the car stalled not once but twice, with a BMW breathing on our bumper and me freaking out at Ter’s elbow. Give credit where it’s due, though: flustered as she was, the bumblebee got her wings whirring and achieved liftoff as the light went red again. We got through the light.

The BMW, naturally, ran it.

* * *

It feels odd to write so clearly about a vehicle long gone, but he served us well and we loved him to the last. I have said before that you can’t own a car for fourteen years and not have a bunch of stories to tell, so further tales from “Ter and Ru and a Car Named Jules” will be posted as more memories surface. Stay tuned!