My motor madness started on a Saturday morning. As I left the house, intending to go to the library to get books for my class in Teacher Education, I said to my brother, “I’ll see you for dinner.” Five minutes later, I was back in the house: my car battery was dead. With my parents’ car in use, my generous younger brother, George, insisted that I take his red, rebuilt 1960 Corvette. Assuring me that his stick-shift was no problem, he sat in the car, demonstrating.
“You must remember to ride the clutch to the floor. City driving can be in 2nd gear, but keep it in 3rd on the freeway. When you stop in 3rd, always go to 2nd before starting in 1st, or you may strip the gears.”
He turned, looking at me, earnestly. “If the inside door paneling falls off, just toss it over to the other side of the floor. Also, the handle of the window is off, so if you want the window down, just use the handle and put it back under the floor mat.”
“But what about the rear view mirror?” I asked, “The celluloid in your rear window is so yellow I can’t see through the back. And there’s a big blind spot to the left behind me, even when I turn my head to look.”
“Oh, just use the left-wing mirror,” he said, confidently. Everything will be all right.”
After giving me all the assurance he could – and as he was very eager to prove the driving ability of his home made vehicle – to show my appreciation, I crouched down, crawled in, and roared off, the car sounding somewhat like a ten-ton truck.
I really didn’t mind the door paneling falling off, although I cut my elbow on the protruding metal, or having to pry open the door and look behind me to be sure it was safe before entering the freeway. It wasn’t too bad attracting all kinds of attention as I noisily jerked forward from one gear to the other, then backward as the seat slipped. It was only after I took the wrong off ramp and decided to call my garage from a service station, that I lost my cool.
Parking in the nearest space available, I pried myself out of the car and started toward the phone booth. A uniformed service station attendant waved his arms, yelling at me. “Hey! Pull that wreck up to the fence or park it in a stall where it belongs!”
Holding onto my dignity as best I could, I re-parked and tried to stay calm, wondering how I could explode and still explain myself. I walked around to the attendant, waiting for him to look up.
“Excuse me,” I said, glaring. “Didn’t your mother ever train you how to speak properly to a lady?” As he stood there, his jaw hanging open -- I repeated his words and gestures, adding, “There must be a better way of asking a person to move their car other than the way you just demonstrated.” Silently and calmly, I left and made my call.
Later, as I rumbled into the parking lot near the library, a neatly dressed, pleasant-looking attendant approached me.
“Good afternoon, young lady, how long do you expect to be?”
What a pleasurable contrast between the speech and attitude of the library attendant and that of the service station attendant!
As I was reluctant to park on an incline because of the brakes, he allowed me to park next to a cliff where the ground was level, assuring me that the car would be safe, since there was no way to lock it.
When I returned, the pleasant-looking attendant asked if I needed help carrying my books. “Can I open the door for you?” he asked, politely opening the door a bit.
“You sure like to read a lot,” he said, smiling, as I paid him. I liked his smile.
On the route home, I decided to put some gas in the car and check on the water and oil. As I drove into a gas station, two attendants were looking at me, laughing. One approached and said, “Where did you get this car? It hasn’t any license plates.”
I remembered that the sticker on the window was like a temporary pair of plates and asked him to service the car.
After he checked under the hood, we decided on 30 - weight Pennzoil, then I noticed that he slickly put in a cheaper oil. It took 20 minutes for three guys to find where the oil stick went, and they almost forgot to put in the water. When I paid, the attendant tried to shortchange me $5, but admitted his error when I called it to his attention.
“I almost got you that time,” he joked,” handing me a $5 bill.
“By the way,” I said, “I asked you for Pennzoil and paid for it, but you gave me Gulf instead. As it was your mistake and not mine, what do you propose to do about it?”
“Oh gosh, no kidding?” he said, his face turning red.
“Would you consider giving me a can of Penn?”
“Yes ma’am, I’ll do that, he said, leaving to service two other cars.
Ten minutes later, when he discovered that I was still waiting, he finally returned with the oil and apologized for his mistake, assuring me that the service would be better next time and to “come back again real soon.”
I analyzed the events of the day. Without a doubt, my brother had done me a good deed, I thought. Besides getting my books, I gained valuable experience. Three different masculine mentalities had vividly impressed upon me the importance of being alert to unexpected situations.
Why prejudge someone because of sex, age, race, looks, clothes or car?
Why not give some respect to those who would take advantage of you because you may help them save face – and if you do, they may learn to respect you and themselves in return.
I highly recommend that all Cadillac and luxury car drivers don their rags, take a day off, and rent or borrow a jalopy. After riding around town all day, I can guarantee you will begin to see yourself in an entirely different world. Indeed, your personal horizons – like the road – will broaden.

Copyright © 2003 Mary L. Ports