Peter’s Camarro
It was either a Thursday or a Friday, one of the two days I beautified. Thursdays were my manicure days, and Fridays were my hairdresser days. On those days, I considered myself a lady of leisure. I did nothing but pamper myself. Peter would come home from the office and sing out as soon as he walked into the door, ‘Hello! I have come to take my best girl out to lunch!’ I would smile in delight. How could I not? He had such joie de vivre. He made everything and everyone sparkle with happiness just by being around him, especially me. Of course, I was ready. I was dressed and ready for whatever plans he had made. I would not ask him where we were going. I knew the answer, “That’s for me to know and you to find out. Wait and see.”
He escorted me out of the house and into his latest acquisition, an old sports car, a Camaro. It did not have too many miles on it, at the most about two thousand miles, if that. It had belonged to an old lady. Her husband had bought it for her birthday many years ago. Alas, very soon after he bought it for her, she began to have symptoms of Alzheimer’s. The police had to escort her back home several times for driving on the wrong side of the streets of their town. Thus, the car was stored in the back of their garage and forgotten for many years. One evening we were having dinner with some friends when the subject of Peter’s interest in old cars came up. They mentioned the car. It belonged to the wife’s mother. Before I knew it, Peter was the proud owner of a mint condition Camaro sports car with only the original miles on it.
On this day, he gallantly opened the door for me. The car was low-slung. I practically would have to sit on the pavement if the seat and the wheels had not interceded! It was not a car for a fifty-something-year-old to ride. My knees were almost tucked underneath my chin. I felt as if I was being squeezed into a sardine can. However, he loved that car so much, what could I say?
We drove to a neighborhood Chinese restaurant. He apologized that he did not have too much time. He had to be back at court at two. I did not mind. Any time spent with him was a treat for me. We would have a nice leisurely lunch, then he would drop me back home and go back to work. We walked to the car. Peter started the car and turned the corner onto the main street. A few moments later, we heard sirens and we were surrounded by police cars, one in front of us and one behind us. We were stunned! What just happened? What had we done? A burly tall policeman walked out of the car behind us. Peter opened his window and looked at him in askance. The police leaned into the car and looked back at us in surprise. ‘What are you doing in a car such as this? I expected to give a ticket to some teenagers. You two are a pair of old fogies!’ Without missing a beat, Peter said, ‘My car is in the shop. I borrowed my son’s. Sorry officer.’ The officer waved us away in disgust. He would have to look elsewhere to fill his quota! As we drove away, we could not help chuckling with amusement.
One day, I borrowed the car, just for fun. Peter’s aunt, Tante Tamara, and I were going out to lunch together. I drove to her house. It was a lovely warm autumn day. I left the windows open. She lived in Suffolk County, about a forty-minute ride away. The roads were not busy. My ever-present classical station was on and drifted out of the windows to accompany the breeze. That gave me such a sense of well-being. I got to my destination. I got out of the car, walked to the front door and rang the bell. She came out all excited. We walked back to the car. She stopped. It was not my sensible sedate car. She looked at it for a long moment and finally said, “Is this one of Peter’s special finds?” I nodded and started to explain. She cut me short. “We are going in my car!” she said. With that, she walked towards her staid Cadillac sedan. Silently, I thought to myself, “Now why ever did I think she would enjoy riding in this sports car?”
A few months later, Peter sold his latest toy. He found that his pristine condition Camaro was having parts stolen almost everywhere he parked. He did not like that. Till the day he died, he spoke of getting another sports car. But next time, he would only use it during the weekends…