I was crossing the street on Devon Sunday on my way to wait for the bus to go to the grocery store, when this yellow antique car came rattling up. I edged up to the passenger side, and asked the guy driving, “What kind of car is this?”
The guy who was sitting up high on the wooden driver’s seat, began tossing the junk on the passenger seat into a bag on the floor of the car answered, “1914 Stutz Bearcat. Wanna ride?”
Now, I’ve been offered rides before by strangers, and if one rule has been pounded into my head since childhood, it’s this one: Never EVER get into a car with someone you don’t know.
But, in that split second when my brain was dutifully dredging up that rule, something in my history loving soul screamed, “Screw you and your rules, Brain! This is a Stutz Bearcat, goddammit! Get your ass in that seat!”
So, I climbed up over the running board and sat on the smooth wooden seat that was little more than a bench with a back.
The guy sure was friendly, and I mean that in a nice way, but my brain still wasn’t certain about this, and hates being overruled by stupid impulses, so it spent the entire trip bitching about how dangerous this was. I covered my brain’s rudeness to my host by complimenting his car, and smiling and waving to people on the street, as they waved and honked and gave thumbs up as we passed.
My smiles and waves also covered another disconcerting emotion roiling though me. Riding a “Rich Man’s Toy” at standard automotive speed sitting on a wooden bench in an open car with no seatbelt over Devon Avenue with its washboard potholes and swarming Asian humanity is…well, not terrifying exactly. It’s somewhere between bracing and scary anyway.
And all the while, I’m arguing with my brain, saying things to it like, “It’s an open car. I can run away if I want.” “Look, he’s an old guy. I can probably take him if I have to.”
Then we took the turn from Broadway onto Hollywood and my brain was forgotten as I clung to the slippery wood of the bench.
The guy did drive me all the way to Mariano’s without asking for anything in return, not even my name or number, for which I was grateful. So, I did him the favor of throwing away the remains of the pistachio sundae he had been eating the whole time.
“See Brain?” I sniffed. “Not everyone is a psycho killer.”
“Great. So if the Son of Sam drove up in a '32 Packard, you’d jump right in.”
My brain is the reason I never have any fun.
