SUNDAY DRIVER

And happily agreeing with Stacy's parents.

The Pontiac Firebird was the car of my dreams in 1984.

It was such a sporty, cool car! My dream car was a burnt umber color with a huge yellow and orange phoenix with outstretched wings on the hood. That year, I was not thinking about George Orwell’s predictions of impending doom. I could think of only one thing—getting my first car.

My friends and I made a game of “going car shopping” every day after school. The six of us would pile into my friend Stacy’s Subaru. (Sidebar: Stacy’s parents obviously bought her the Subaru, which they called a touring car. We didn’t think about things like getting good gas mileage or dependability … obviously.)

As soon as the bell rang, the six of us would pile into Stacy’s Subaru and head for the used car lot. I’m sure the salesmen were not as excited as we were when we tumbled out, looking more like the clowns flailing out of a tiny car at the local circus than serious car buyers. I’m surprised they let me test drive anything! And even more surprised that often they would let the six of us take the test drive!

We spent weeks playing the car shopping game. It should not have been a surprise that with a budget of $1,000 I didn’t find a car. I did manage to hook the next best thing for a 16-year-old … a boyfriend with a Firebird! Needless to say, once I got my own car, I broke up with him and his Firebird.

That relationship of convenience fizzled with the arrival of my 1966 Alpine Sunbeam. It was bright red, with a white convertible top and big round headlights. Need I say more? I loved that car! I’m still mad at myself for selling it when I was pregnant and could no longer fit behind the wheel.

Photo by Doug Fortune on Unsplash

The memory of my Firebird dream came flooding back the other day when I heard the familiar Rev-Rev-Rev of a muscle car. One thing I didn’t tell you about my test-driving experience was that, at the start of every drive, I pumped the gas pedal to listen to the car roar! This practice seems to be an unwritten rule, although I’m not sure how I knew I was supposed to do it.

My neighbor, like every self-respecting muscle car owner, knows this rule. He doesn’t just start the engine and back out of the driveway, as if he were driving a Subaru. No! He does the Rev-Rev-Rev to get the Roar-Roar-Roar, and then backs out. He also makes sure everyone in the neighborhood knows he’s leaving when he punches the gas to get up and over the high bridge over the river, which I’ll admit gives me a nostalgic smile.

Just like many of my teenage dreams that have lost their luster, I’m no longer dreaming of a Pontiac Firebird. And I’m not inclined to Rev-Rev-Rev the engine—that would just waste gas. Besides, I don’t feel the need to alert my neighbors that I’m backing out of the driveway.

I’ve joined the side of Stacy’s parents and am perfectly happy to be a Sunday driver.

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