First Car

Back in 1982, I had just graduated from high school and was on my way to the University of Rhode Island to study engineering. I planned on living at home for the first two years even though most of my friends were moving to campus to be "on their own." Now, many parents prefer their kids to live at school so they experience independence even though lodging and meals are all taken care of for them. The only decision most college students must make is whether they should attend or skip class. A lot of kids want to immerse themselves in the "campus life." I was mainly interested in getting good grades. Since my parents couldn't afford a prep school, I had to be introduced to underage drinking at bonfires in the woods during the summer. Unfortunately, one does not meet influential people who they will network with later in life by hanging out in the back forty of a farmer's fallow field while drinking Mad Dog. That's probably why I never ended up on the Supreme Court.

When it came to purchasing my first car to commute to school, my father elected not to go with me. His childhood was pretty rough with an absent father who was murdered when he was 11 years old. He always said that his dad was never much in his life so likewise as a father he had difficulty relating to his son. When it was time to choose a car, like many things in my youth, I was on my own.

After looking through newspaper ads, I went to a local used car dealership where I met Russell who I'm sure saw me coming from a mile off. He showed me a wreck which he insisted "just needed a paint job."

"This is a classic," Russell exuberantly exclaimed.

Luckily, the car looked too much of a mess to appeal to my inexperienced, youthful, impractical mind. Eventually, I settled in on a 1976 Ford Mustang II hatchback with a standard transmission. I didn't know how to drive a stick but that didn't worry me. The looks of the car appealed to my superficial, immature side. Russell referred to the car as a "creampuff." With his used car salesman instincts, he knew that I hadn't a clue about all that stuff under the hood. I had a friend who could drive a stick bring the car to my parent's mechanic to check it out.

For some reason my father always bought yellow Ford Country Squire station wagons. I think he had five of them in all. The simulated wood side panels were a distinctive feature that clearly articulated,

"I'm the type of guy who shouts at the television screen when I have a load of green peas in my mouth."

He had so many of them because each lasted only about 60,0000 miles before the transmission fell out or the chassis cracked. Today, cars are much more reliable than when I was a kid. Almost no odometers in my youth rolled up to six figures. In fact, one of the Country Squires had such a bad transmission, the car didn't shift out of second gear. There was no lemon laws back then either so it was common for people to be making payments on a car that wasn't running at all.

Many mechanics were crooks too. Sometimes when you had your car serviced, you'd get the "sunshine treatment" which was when someone at the dealership moved your car from the spot you parked in when you dropped it off to a new location making it appear as though your car was serviced. Instead, your vehicle which the service department claimed was ready to go really just spent a day in the sun. And to think they took money from you as well.

A mechanic at the dealership which sold my father his last Country Squire, the one that wouldn't shift, secretly told my dad to get rid of it. Back then vehicle transmission problems were not uncommon and yet impossible to fix. The dealership insisted there was nothing wrong with the car so my father, orchestrating a brilliant chess move, announced that he wanted to trade it in. Since the car was less than a month old and they insisted nothing was wrong with it, they were obliged to give him top dollar.

Just before he was to drop off the car, it snowed heavily overnight. For some reason my father use a metal shovel to clear the snow off the hood. My dad was prone to bonehead moves, and this was a big one. He scratched the paint extensively. Thinking fast, he piled the snow back on to cover up the damage. He told me that all winter long when he drove by the dealership on his way to work, he would spot the used shit box parked in the lot with a big sign over the windshield that read "LOW MILES." He said with a chuckle,

"Yeah, low because the car doesn't move."

Eventually in the spring when the snow melted and the scratches on the hood were discovered, they probably thought that my dad damaged the car in retaliation for sticking him with such a poorly running vehicle, but that wasn't the case. While my father was prone to poor judgement, he was particularly adept at scamming his way out of any jam he found himself in.

His first car was a 1950 Ford that he owned with his brother. At the time my father was in the army and my uncle in the navy. Along with two of their service buddies, the brothers were driving home to Rhode Island when they got into a car accident. Even though they were in an unfamiliar town, my father managed to find a mechanic who said he could fix the car. A few days later when they picked it up, my father noticed the alignment was off pretty badly. In fact, he said unless you gripped the steering wheel tightly, the car couldn't drive in a straight line. My father had the repairs done without contacting his insurance company. When he arrived home in Rhode Island, he brought the bill to an insurance adjuster who admonished my dad for not first getting approval. He told my father that the car should have been totaled. My dad was in his uniform and acted clueless. The adjuster reluctantly agreed to process his claim.

My father knew at a very young age that perception is reality, and he used this to his advantage throughout his life. He often told a story that on Mother's Day he and his brothers would collect a few coins that they scrounged up for a bouquet of flowers. Instead of going into the flower shop himself as a cocky kid without much money, he sent in his little brother, Ronnie, who with snot running down his nose dumped the meager pile of pennies on the counter as he asked,

"How many flowers can I get for this much?"

My father said Ronnie would always meet them on the sidewalk carrying a huge beautifully arranged bouquet.

With the insurance check in his pocket and both hands firmly on the wheel, my father drove the wayward Ford to a well known used car dealership in Providence owned and operated by Jake Kaplan, the namesake of many Jaguar and Land Rover establishments in Rhode Island today. My father traded in the wreck for a used Mercury. A few days later my dad returned to the dealership because a turn signal on the Mercury burned out. When Jake Kaplan saw my father in his army uniform, he ask,

"Are you the GI who brought in that Ford a few days ago?"

"Yeah, the turn signal on the car I bought doesn't work," my dad exclaimed.

My father was always amused when he recalled Mr. Kaplan's response. He said that Jake Kaplan himself yelled right in the showroom,

"HOW MANY PEOPLE DIED IN THAT WRECK?"

My father’s savvy side didn’t last into his later years. For some reason my dad always trusted a local mechanic who had ripped him off countless times. Whenever he got screwed over, he went out and bought the exact same thing from the exact same people as if this time would be different. And now it was my turn to assume my father's post as a consumer sucker by bringing my perspective first car to his mechanic who had been mining my father's wallet for decades. They were fully aware that if I purchased this junker, they would be tasked with fixing it. After the inspection, a mechanic handed me an envelope with notes scribbled on the back indicating that "the compression was way up" and there was "no leaks of any kind." That was good enough for me. The following day I purchased the crap box for $3000.

The first time I pulled my new used car in the driveway, my father immediately noticed it was leaking oil. After I paid $400 to fix the rear main seal, on my first trip back from school the brakes failed. Even though I was new to driving a standard, I was able to downshift to bring the car to a stop. I discovered an odd beige colored fluid pouring out from under the car. As far as I knew (and I didn't know much), there was no single fluid in the engine that was that color. It turned out that if you mixed oil, brake and transmission fluids together you got beige. A few weeks into the semester a wheel fell off on the highway. All these repairs went to my father's mechanic, the guy who inspected the car before I bought it, and I stupidly paid the bill with every dime I earned the past summer washing dishes and mowing lawns.

The most notable mishap occurred the following year. I delivered the local newspaper as a part-time job, the money from which I used to keep the piece of scrap metal masquerading as a vehicle running. In the afternoon, I picked up bundles of newspapers at the press and deliver them to stores and carriers. As I cruised down the road loaded up with stacks of newspapers, my car caught on fire. I pulled over then threw open the hood. A ball of fire shot out of the carburetor. Not having an extinguisher I grabbed a bundle of newspapers and beat back the flames. By the time the fire truck arrived, I had the situation under control.

The local paper reported,

"Many newspapers boast of accurate coverage of fires, but yesterday The Pawtucket Valley Daily Times was actually used to extinguish a fire."

The article chronicled my car troubles which included the brake failure and the errant wheel as well as spotlighted my freshman status as a mechanical engineer. It ended with this final sentiment,

"Languedoc said that he didn't think the vehicle had it in for him, then added, 'All in all, it's a good car when the brakes work, the wheels stay on, and it's not on fire.'"

Today, young people are unaware of how poorly built automobiles were back in the day. Now cars are very reliable even those built in less developed countries. My dad often said that "Ford" stood for "Fix Or Repair Daily." Millennials don't realize how common it was to buy a new car right off the lot only to discover the next day that it won't start when you turn the key. Our oldest son, Aidan, asked me recently why we put up with such poor quality back then. It's not like we didn't know any better because we did. My parents had stuff handed down to them from their parents that still worked just fine. My mother had a Kirby vacuum cleaner that was her mother's. It had an attachment that could be used to sand floors. My cousin has woodworking tools that were his grandfather's.

There was a time when stuff was built to last, then later when it was my turn, things were built half-assed. There wasn't much we could do about it because most things you bought back then were cheaply constructed. After being screwed over many times, everyone's expectations were suitably lowered. I suppose market forces, competition, supply and demand, all pushed industries to build things better, but even today we still don't expect appliances to last much more than ten years.

I found my mother's Kirby in the back of the hallway closet the other day. It has a cloth covered cord and must weigh thirty pounds or more. When I plugged it in and flipped the switch, the light shown brightly and the motor sprung to life. I ran it over the rug in the family room. It worked wonderfully. And just in case you didn't know, they still make them.

Editor's Note: Originally published on October 16, 2018.