I was recently driving up Interstate 93 to go see an Imax movie when it hit me: I am a phenomenal driver. I'm not one to brag, but seriously, I can flat out handle a vehicle.
Some people say townie drivers are too aggressive and reckless, while townies will counter by complaining that non-Masshole drivers are too cautious and wicked slow. I, however, am a hybrid of a townie and an outsider, and have an uncanny, balanced mix of caution and aggression when behind the wheel.
Unfortunately, the gods of automobiles deemed it fit to punish me for my absurd prowess and ability. My last three cars, the only cars I've ever been insured on, have all been totaled when parked in front of my house.
The first car was wrecked in high school, the other two (including my infamous maroon Mauler Monte Carlo) were ruined in one fell swoop by an elderly woman just a few months ago (Thankfully, she was completely unharmed. I wish the perpetrator was like a convicted sex offender or something so I could get really mad, but I think there's some rule about getting mad at anyone over the age of 80. If that's not a law, then it should be).
But my first car, a 1987 Ford Crown Victoria, was especially dear to me. Here is my tribute to the best car I'll ever own.
The external appearance made me feel like a pretty legit badass. Crown Vics were the models for cop cars back in the days when raw power and speed were more important than safe steering and power brakes.
I always had to make sure to stay under 80 because once I crossed that threshold on the speedometer (it only went to 85), the car started to rattle and handled about as well as a yacht, no lefts or rights, just starboard and port. Mine was dark red, hence the nickname "Red Dragon." Due to the gasoline smell that followed it around, it very easily could have breathed fire.
The interior was the real gem of the Vic, fully clad with grey colored seats with a fabric similar to that of a stuffed animal. Numerous burn marks could be seen on the front seat due to the cigar-smoking senior who once steered the beast.
The air conditioning was obviously broken, the heat too, but the Lord blessed that baby with quite possibly the fastest and most efficient power windows in any car I've ever been in. There was only a tape player, and if you think Puff Daddy and Biggie's "Mo Money, Mo Problems" cassette single wasn't regularly bumping, then you are sorely mistaken.
Also, I could fit upwards of eight people in the front and back seats (2 bodies ... I mean people could go in the trunk if need be), making me quite possibly the best designated driver this side of Route 16.
It was the best possible first car any guy could ask for.
My junior year in high school was made a solid 10 to 20 times more fun due to the Red Dragon. During free blocks, a few friends and I would take baby off campus on local towns' trash days.
We were avid players in the game of "barrel bowling," with the barrels as pins and the Vic as the bowling ball. I recognize that this is an utterly childish and immature game, one that is selfish and probably illegal, but try it sometime and soon you'll be setting up leagues.
One day, late in the spring, my car was parked on the street outside of my high school, and was involved in an accident. A drunk driver had hit the car behind mine and knocked it through a brick wall, while hitting a sign that dropped onto my trunk.
A stroke of luck: My car only had damage to the trunk, a few big dents, and I made a few hundred to "fix" it. The trunk still worked, and the dents only added character, so basically it's like the drunk threw up $100 bills on my car.
Karma would soon rear its head, however, striking its deadly blow a week later, on the night of my junior prom. I was fully clad in my pimp tuxedo, looking like James Bond if he were a townie.
I had just finished taking pictures with mom and dad on that beautiful day when it happened. A teenager (actually a kid from my Sunday school classes as a young Catholic townie), took too wide of a turn onto my street, and decked the Dragon into the tree in front of my house, effectively totaling it.
The damage was upwards of $2,000 and the car was only worth about $500, so the Vic was taken from me that fateful day.
I'll never love a car the way I loved the Dragon, and one day, when I'm rich and famous, I won't splurge on one Ferrari. I'll just buy 20 Red Dragons.
Pete McKeown is a senior majoring in English. He can be reached at
peter.mckeown@tufts.edu.
