Three Vignettes on Wheels
The 'Statute of Limitations' Series
Author’s Note: I’ve been holding onto these stories for many years now, the first one going back over two decades and the second and third taking place some time later. As the subtitle suggests, I’m telling them now for the first time publicly because, well, I finally can without having to worry about legal repercussions for any of those involved. Nonetheless, I’ve changed names and some minor details for the obvious privacy reasons. Other than that and the inevitable effect that time can have on the precision of memory, I have told them as accurately as possible.
I don’t feel the need to hide my own passive participation in these stories, but please don’t mistake that for pride or approval concerning what transpired. I neither condone nor condemn what you are about to read, I’m simply narrating it as accurately as my memory allows. They are stories that I felt were worth telling, and so I decided to tell them.
I also admittedly needed to put my mind towards something that has nothing to do with politics or fascism for the sake of my mental health, and this is what came forward when I allowed myself to think about something other than the current global dumpster fire.
I. The Camry
Summer 2003
It was a horrifically sweltering night, the kind of night that served to remind the lower classes as to why the affluent always fled New York City in August. It was also less than a week after our lives were upended by one of the longest blackouts in city history, so to say that everyone was a bit on edge was putting it lightly.
I admit that I can’t tell you the exact temperature, considering that I’m combing through memories that go back over two decades now, but if I had to guess I would say that it was likely in the range of heat that correlates with upticks in violence, a phenomenon that was deeply understood in New York long before sociologists caught up with the evidence.
But what I can tell you for sure is that I was already quite hot and irritated when, upon trying to fall asleep around midnight or so, a car alarm started blaring from down the block. I sat up, let myself feel annoyed for a moment, and then settled back down, assuming that the alarm would stop momentarily, as was usually the case.
Unfortunately, this time it wasn’t the case. And after about fifteen minutes I shot out of bed, angrily threw on my clothes and shoes, and stormed out of my apartment towards the sound. And as I approached, I quickly realized that I was far from the only one irritated by the noise. There were about a half-dozen other people gathered around the car, an aging maroon Toyota Camry with out-of-state plates that had definitely seen better days. The kind of car that in and of itself was pretty worthless, but for which the parts were worth a pretty penny, hence why the owner bothered with a car alarm.
Another neighbor arrived just after I did, and a few minutes later there were well over a dozen of us, tired and irritated, collectively discussing our limited options. One man said he was going to run back to his place to call the police, and we nodded in unison, temporarily deluding ourselves into thinking that such an action would bring us peace. But he returned a few minutes later, shaking his head as he walked up towards us, and gruffly let us know that the dispatcher had told him that the precinct was currently overwhelmed with higher-priority calls and that he should call back in an hour or so.
“Fuck that, I’m not waiting an hour,” yelled a younger hot-head type, and angrily kicked the front of the car. The alarm suddenly stopped, we all collectively breathed a sigh of relief, and as soon as the breath escaped our lips it started up again.
He kicked it again, then moved to the driver’s side door and gave that a solid kick hard enough to leave a dent. It did nothing for the sound, but had obviously acted as a release for him, as he then stepped back for a moment with a satisfied expression on his face. Most of the rest of us looked at him warily, simultaneously in synch with his frustration but also slightly unsettled by the idea of property damage.
Another minute or so went by, a minute that seemed like an eternity given the heat and the noise, when suddenly another young man ran up to the car and slammed his fist down on the hood. Once again, the alarm stopped for a moment and then continued on blaring.
I looked around us in all directions. A few other people were approaching us from down the block, the pace of their stride suggesting that they were also irritated at being deprived of a night’s rest. I looked around at everyone else surrounding the car, our eyes meeting each other, and in our expressions we came to a mutual understanding as to what was about to transpire and that we needed to make our own choices in the matter.
About half of us stepped back, wanting to distance ourselves from the inevitable but also feeling a need to bear witness and frankly act as a lookout. The other half advanced on the car and in unison started to kick and slam it with their feet and fists from all angles. I leaned back against a nearby tree and watched as my neighbors delivered blow after blow to no avail. The dents were accumulating rapidly but the alarm was still blaring away.
When suddenly a man appeared seemingly out of nowhere, running towards the car with a baseball bat raised over his head and came down with it hard on the front of the car, utterly crushing the hood. The alarm stopped. Everyone backed away with baited breath but this time the noise did not start up again. The car sat basically in ruins but the block was finally silent.
We looked around at each other, again our eyes meeting, again an unspoken understanding being communicated as clear as could be. We nodded in unison, turned around, and went back to our homes, united in omerta and the hope that we could finally sleep in peace.
The next morning, I woke up rather late, and upon remembering what had transpired the night before, got dressed as fast as I could and ran down the block. The car had vanished, the spot was empty. I looked around, and noticed one of the neighbors who had also witnessed the events of the night before sitting on her stoop.
“A tow truck just left,” she yelled from the stoop. “Not sure what happened to that car there but they just dragged it away in pieces.”
I wasn’t sure what happened either, of course, because none of us saw anything.
II. The Camaro
Summer 2008
Bryan had started out as my weed guy, but over time we had become pretty good friends. We both were somewhat new to the West Coast, him being from Texas and my arriving from New York, and we had quickly bonded over the amusing cultural differences that we were both constantly stumbling over in the midst of Oregon hippie country.
We had first met when we were both living in Eugene proper, but the following spring he had found a place out in the country where he was able to further expand his operation without worrying about nosy neighbors, and so it became a ritual for me to go out to visit him once a month or so for a change of pace.
And so it was that I arrived at his rambling farmhouse one spring day, and instead of the usual blue pickup in the driveway, parked in front of the house was a seemingly new Chevrolet Camaro convertible, bright red and glistening in the sun and admittedly sexy as fuck. I wasn’t a car person, but seeing a car like that made me understand why car people became car people.
As I stood there admiring it, Bryan came out of the house and nodded towards the car.
“It’s my brother’s. The repo man is looking for it, so he left it here to hide it while he gets the payments sorted out. Wanna go for a spin?”
I nodded. How could I resist?
“I have to make a delivery anyway,” he continued. “Lemme grab my knapsack and I’ll be right there.”
He disappeared into the house for a second, and then re-emerged with a backpack that emitted a tell-tale weed smell. He threw the bag into the trunk and I got into the passenger seat and buckled up.
“I’m gonna take it out towards Territorial. Make sure that seat belt is secure.”
I looked at him with a slight look of alarm. “Chill out, you worry too much,” he said, laughing. He was right, I did worry too much, but still.
“Where’s your delivery? Why are we going out to Territorial?” I dared to ask.
“My delivery isn’t far from here. We’re going out to Territorial because it’s empty and flat,” he stressed with a mischievous grin.
The butterflies in my stomach increased exponentially, but my boundaries were much shittier back then and my allergy to conflict was much greater, so I just kept quiet.
The Territorial Highway is a north-south route running through rural Oregon, starting as a branch off 99W in Monroe and continuing southwards in various forms until it meets up with I-5 outside of Cottage Grove. And while much of the route is hilly and windy, the section that we had arrived at, near Junction City, was indeed quite empty and flat.
Bryan brought the car to a stop in the middle of the highway, rolled down the convertible top, and looked over at me.
“Ready?”
“For what?”
In lieu of a reply, he hit the gas as hard as he could. And within ten seconds we had gone from a standstill to flying. I dared to look over at the speedometer, which read 130 mph. My fear temporarily disappearing, I raised my hands as though I was descending on a rollercoaster and allowed myself to enjoy the moment. Never before in my life had I experienced such a thrill, never before had I felt more alive. I yelled at the top of my lungs, Bryan did the same, our hair flapping violently through the wind as we zoomed down the highway through the countryside screaming like little kids.
And it was probably due to us screaming that we didn’t immediately hear the sirens behind us. I turned around and saw a police car on our tail.
“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” yelled Bryan.
My thoughts immediately went to the knapsack in the trunk, which undoubtedly contained an amount of marijuana that was well beyond the personal possession limits. As the car slowed, I started contemplating what a potential future in prison would be like.
I looked over at Bryan, who was managing to hide his fear much more than I was.
“I got this, don’t worry,” he said to me, his voice wavering slightly. “We’re going to be OK.”
I nodded, for at that point I had basically lost the ability to speak anyway. I froze up even further as the officer approached the car.
“Do you have any idea how fast you were going?” the officer barked loudly as he turned towards Bryan.
“Umm… around 100 I think?” he said, knowing full well that it was much faster than that.
“Nice try, sir. I have you clocked at 129 and I have a feeling you had already hit your top speed before my radar picked you up. License and registration, please.”
Bryan reached over to open the glove box to pull out the registration. At this point, for better or for worse I had pretty much utterly disassociated. I was conscious of what was transpiring, but it felt like a movie being watched in slow-motion. Bryan handed over his license and registration and the officer walked back to his vehicle.
We looked at each other, equally wide-eyed, not knowing what to say or do.
“If he asks you to open the trunk, we are utterly fucked,” I finally whispered, for some reason feeling the need to state the brutally obvious.
“Yeah, I know,” he whispered back. “Trust me, I know.”
We both took the deepest breath possible as the officer started to walk back towards us. He handed Bryan back his paperwork.
“Whose car is this? he asked.
“My brother’s,” Bryan answered. “I could never afford a car like this.”
The officer nodded, and then suddenly his stern expression turned into a grin.
“You know, my father had one of these,” he said, with an air of amusement and nostalgia in his voice. “It was a ‘69,” he went on. “When I was a kid, he would take me out up on these back roads and we would see how fast we could take it up. Back then, nobody really cared if you were zooming up and down around these parts. It was really something else. Although I don’t think we ever got her up to 129 like you did,” he said, chuckling.
Bryan and I looked at each other, in utter disbelief as to what were hearing.
The officer continued. “That being said, you were going nearly 70 miles over the speed limit, which I can’t ignore. You know I have to give you a ticket.”
We nodded, as calmly as possible, trying not to reveal the fact that given the circumstances we would be absolutely thrilled to simply receive a ticket and drive away.
“Any speed over 100 miles an hour is a minimum $1000 fine. But you two seem like good kids and I feel like I would be a hypocrite to put that on you for something that I did myself back in the day. So I’m going to say that I clocked you at 99. It’s still gonna cost you a pretty penny, it’s a Class A violation, but your driving record is clean so you’ll be fine.”
“Thank you, sir, thank you so much,” Bryan stammered.
As for me, I just smiled and nodded, still in a complete state of shock at everything that had just transpired.
He walked back to his car again and then returned with the ticket.
“You have a nice day now, and watch yourself behind the wheel of that thing. She’s a beauty, you take care of her,” he said, nodded, and left.
We just sat there in the car on the side of the road for at least the next half hour, processing, trying to breathe again, waiting for our hearts to stop racing.
Finally, he turned to me and cracked a grin. “I told you it would be OK,” he said.
“Oh, shut the fuck up,” I replied. “You were just as terrified as me and never before have either of us known such luck.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “Fuck the delivery, I’m going back to my place. I need a fucking spliff after all that.”
I nodded, and we took off at a disciplined 60 miles per hour, as the law allows.
III. The Cadillac
Spring 2011
I was driving past Birdie and Sue’s place on the edge of town, on my way to somewhere or other, when I noticed a new Subaru in the driveway. Gone was the vintage Cadillac Eldorado that they had driven for as long as I had known them.
That’s odd, if they had moved, I thought that they would have told me, I said to myself. We weren’t super close, but we definitely weren’t strangers either and I had a deep fondness for the two of them. But that’s how it is sometimes, life goes on. I continued on with my day and forgot about it quickly.
A few weeks later, I walked into a downtown coffee shop and as I was ordering, I saw Birdie and Sue sitting at a table in the back, looking as put-together and classy as always. I waved to them and when my drink was ready, I walked over to their table.
“I thought you had left town or something,” I said as I approached. “I saw another car in your driveway.
“Oh yes dear, we decided to retire so we didn’t need it anymore,” said Birdie. As the words came out of her mouth, I noticed that Sue had shot her an alarmed look.
For my part, I was a bit confused and my expression likely revealed that, as I had generally thought that a Cadillac was one’s reward for retiring, not something you get rid of at that point in one’s life.
She continued. “We sold it to someone who had better use for it and bought something a bit more practical and fuel-efficient.”
At that point, Sue elbowed her and shot her an unmistakable “what the fuck” look. I should probably mention for context that Birdie was always quite the chatterbox and Sue a woman of very few words, but Sue’s reaction was still somewhat out of character.
The two then engaged in a series of back-and-forth looks, a wordless conversation of sorts that I couldn’t quite decipher at that moment given my limited abilities to understand expressive nuance, but if I had to take a stab at it based on what I subsequently learned about them I would in retrospect narrate it as follows:
“What the fuck are you doing? Shut up!”
“Oh stop it, we can trust her.”
“But we don’t talk about this to anyone, or have you forgotten?”
“Yes I know but frankly I want to tell someone now that we’re done and again, we can trust her.”
“Oh fine. Have it your way. Hmmph.”
Birdie looked around the coffee shop for a moment, then turned to me. “Let’s finish our coffee and then we’ll all go for a walk, what do you say, dear?”
I nodded and gulped down my cup.
Birdie and Sue were an older lesbian couple that I had first met while vending my clothing at the Eugene Saturday Market. Birdie had started to come by my booth regularly, buying presents to send to her granddaughter who lived on the East Coast. They were a rather reserved couple, quite unlike the typical folks who hung around that market, but we somewhat gravitated towards each other in that way that outsiders often do, and over the years our relationship shifted from one of commerce to one of friendship.
Birdie came from an old-money Southern family, and she had made her way to Oregon after her marriage fell apart and she subsequently came out of the closet. She had first settled in Ashland where she met Sue, a “love at first sight” event as they both described it. They eventually settled on the outskirts of Eugene but compared to most folks I knew in town they definitely kept to themselves. My friendship with them was somewhat in isolation, I didn’t know anyone else who really knew them at all.
And while I always had a hunch that there was an aspect of their lives that they were keeping hidden, I never dared to pry and simply accepted it for what it was, feeling grateful and honored that they had let me into their lives as much as they had given how reserved they otherwise were.
But as we left the coffee shop, I suddenly had a feeling that I was about to discover the missing piece, so to speak. We walked in silence for a while, towards the canal and out of earshot of anyone who could potentially pick up on what was being said. Walking along the canal, Birdie finally started to speak.
“So yes, the Cadillac.” she said, and then stopped.
“What about it?” I asked.
“I’m not sure where to start, dear. It’s not something we really talk about. But yes, the Cadillac. So, that was no ordinary car, you see.”
I gave her a quizzical look and she continued.
“It was… how to say… specially equipped. Customized. Storage under the seats and all that. For transporting things that one wouldn’t want to be discovered.”
Sue then abruptly cut in. “You know those trips back East we always made?”
I nodded. They had driven back East twice a year for as long as I had known them. I had always assumed it was to visit family.
“Yes, to see Birdie’s son, right?”
“Well, yes… and no. We always made sure to see Roger, but we were also always making a… well… delivery.”
At that moment I realized that it had never really occurred to me before to wonder how Birdie and Sue had made a living. I always just subconsciously assumed that Birdie had family money, but again, I never ruminated on it much given how private they were. They were classy but frugal, typical old-money vibes, and I had always left it at that. But suddenly my mind was racing.
“Wait… deliveries? What kind of deliveries?”
Birdie laughed. “The kind of deliveries that only two nicely-dressed white women driving a Cadillac could get away with for as long as we did,” she said.
I gasped, and couldn’t stop myself as the words poured out of my mouth. “Wait, you’re telling me you guys were fucking drug smugglers?”
Sue once again looked a bit alarmed while Birdie continued to laugh. “No no, not drugs, dear. Only marijuana of course. And we weren’t smugglers, we were simply transporting from here to there. Pot can’t drive itself, after all. We were just helping it along to where it needed to go.”
I stopped walking and just stood there and stared at them in awe. Suddenly everything that I didn’t quite understand about them made perfect sense. Birdie looked relieved, as though a secret she had been carrying for years had finally been lifted off her shoulders, and well, that was indeed the case. Sue then cracked a smile as well.
I then just started to babble out loud what was running through my mind.
“But… that’s amazing. It’s brilliant. You guys are brilliant. What the fuck? Of course! It makes perfect sense! Oh my god! That’s what you did for a living? Of course you did. And nobody would have ever suspected. I can only imagine the two of you being pulled over in Middle America. Never in a million years would anyone have ever suspected a thing…”
“We were only pulled over once in thirty years,” said Birdie. “Broken tail light. And yes, nobody ever suspected a thing. But between the legalization trend going on everywhere and the fact that neither us nor the Caddy were getting any younger, we decided that the last trip we took would be indeed the last. And so we sold the car and then we bought a Subaru because apparently that’s what us lesbians are supposed to do,” she said, again laughing.
I then started laughing myself. “I can’t believe it,” I said admiringly. “I mean, I can absolutely believe it, but you know what I mean. What a fucking amazing story. That’s like Hollywood movie shit.”
“It is quite the story I suppose,” said Sue. “And you are free to tell it once we’re gone, it’s a story worth telling after all, but obviously we need you to not tell a single soul for now.”1
I nodded. “Of course,” I stressed.
My mind was spinning as we walked back towards the coffee shop. To be fair, all of our minds were probably spinning. Birdie having relieved herself of the hidden side of her life, Sue was internally reckoning with her fear and nervousness but also probably somewhat relieved, and for me I was both so taken aback by it all but also deeply moved that they had chosen to confide in me.
I hugged them goodbye and headed home, still digesting everything I had taken in that afternoon.
I had a feeling that I would be digesting it for a while.
Some years later, after having moved to Portland, I was driving up I-5 towards Seattle when I stopped to get some gas. I had just finished filling up my van when a car pulled in behind me and I did a double-take. It was the same Cadillac Eldorado that Birdie used to drive. At least I was pretty certain it was, but I admittedly wanted to know for sure.
“Nice car,” I said as I walked up to the driver, a cocky-looking twentysomething white guy who had just gotten out to fill up himself.
He turned towards me and I continued. “I once knew someone with a Caddy like that. It’s amazing how much you can pack into those old beauties, gotta say…”
I smiled and winked at him as his eyes bugged out of his head and walked back to my van, chuckling under my breath.
Yep, I said to myself, pretty sure that’s the same car.
Both of them are since deceased, and indeed I had not told a single soul.
Très belles histoires, Alley ! Merci !
Fun to read!