My First Car - a MG Hatchback
By the time I was twenty, the romance of cross-country trips by bike and thumb gave way to the practicality of having a car. And so I became the proud owner of my first car, a used MG hatchback (think old Mini Cooper).
Jim proposed the price for his dark blue compact, “Give me $90 now, and $90 more if the car makes it back from your trip to the east coast. It has a cracked engine block, so you’ll have to put in oil each time you fill up for gas.” Deal.
I packed my car, complete with a case of 30 weight Pennzoil motor oil and set out east, leaving a greasy trail as I headed up the Sierras, through the Nevada desert, up over the Rockies, and through the Midwestern Plains. The car chugged along, a little slow on the up hills, but it successfully arrived at the east coast. I was diligent in adding a quart of oil at each gas station stop. After a successful tour the eastern seaboard and a visit with friends in Minnesota, I headed back west on route 80 in my little blue car.
On the long, straight road of the Salt Flats, west of Salt Lake City, a young man held out his thumb. It was etiquette of the road that a fellow hitchhiker, while driving a car, had to give a ride to a person in need. I opened the door to the hitchhiker, who lamented, “I was going east but I got stuck in Utah. Apparently, the Mormons aren’t giving rides to black men, so I give up, I am heading back to California.” I was glad to have the company on the long ride, as we swapped hitchhiking stories into the evening.
The MG cruised through the moon-like terrain of the eastern Nevada desert. A few miles past a small town, there was a loud thud as the rear end of the car collapsed, screeching to a stop on the freeway. My passenger put his head in his hands, “I am never going to get back home.”
We got out, pushed the car to the side of the road and surveyed the damage. A broken rear axle was the culprit. “I am walking back to the town to spend the night. Do you want me to send a tow truck?” asked my companion. I thought for a minute. “No thanks, I couldn’t afford to get an axle fixed, even if it was towed. Good luck.”
I sat in the front seat alone in the cold desert night. Out the window millions of stars burned brightly in the black night sky. I considered my options. Then, I gathered up all my belongings, took the registration from the glove box, unscrewed the license plates, and pushed the broken vehicle down the sand embankment at the side of the road.
I was once again a hitchhiker. On the bright side I reasoned, at least I wouldn’t have to pay Jim his additional $90 for my now abandoned car. I waited for a ride heading west in the freezing wee-hours of the Nevada desert. No ride came. The wailing of a coyote broke the silence. Did the desert have wolves? Still no ride.
Far off in the distance came a low rumble, and then I could see the distant lights of a vehicle heading my way. I moved from the side of the road into the right lane, arm and thumb fully extended. As the van approached I could hear music. The van stopped, the door opened, and a swirl of pot smoke and pounding rock’n roll poured out of the welcome ride.
“Hop in, where you headed?” the longhaired driver asked.
“Back to California, thanks for stopping.”
“Where in California?”
“The Bay Area.”
“The Bay Area, cool, that’s where I’m heading. Where in the Bay Area?”
“Berkeley.”
“Berkley! That’s where I am from. Where in Berkeley?”
“Walker Street, it's only a block from Shattuck.”
“Walker Street, I live on Walker Street.”
On my way home in the warm van I imagined a highway patrolman following the oily trail to my abandoned car at the bottom of the desert sand dune. Had I successfully erased all evidence of ownership of my first car? I hoped so.
And as my neighbor dropped me at my apartment, I also hoped that my hitchhiking passenger had somehow found his way home too, evading both Mormons and coyotes.