We just came back from a month in Los Angeles. We lived there in 2013-14, but things (and we) have changed a lot since then. Los Angeles was the first place I’d lived in a fully automotive environment, and, as an almost-lifelong New Yorker, I was very excited by the idea of driving cars every day, and even more excited when I got a truck.
What follows is an essay I wrote a dozen years ago about that experience. I thought I’d share it with you again because, well, I like it and I hope you will too.
Last weekend, I bought a truck. Actually, I didn’t technically buy it — Jenny charged it on her Platinum American Express Card. So, the initial surge of testosterone that came from being able to say, “I just bought a truck” was thwarted by the fact that American Express called my girlfriend back to verify her identity faster than it called me back, so the charge went through on her card instead of mine and my big-man-moment shriveled into a mumbled ‘uh, thanks’.
This is the fourth (or fifth) vehicle I have ever owned.
The first was a 1965 Ford Fairlane that I bought in Jersey City for $600 when I was 26. I bought it before I actually had a driver’s license, so it sat by the curb outside my house for a month before I could manage to pass the test. It was bronze-colored and had just 30,000 miles on the odometer. In the six months that I owned it, I added another 500 miles to that total, most of it to neighborhood car washes.
I loved the car but could never really manage its “three on the tree” transmission. When I moved back to Manhattan that fall, I gave it to my roommate, Simon, who promptly totaled it in a supermarket parking lot.
The next car I owned was ten years later, a 1962 Mercury Monterey—two-tone (teal and white), 18 feet long, and, again, also with only 30,000 miles on it. I was too anxious to drive it out of Manhattan and too impatient to drive it in the city, so every other weekend Patti and I drove it up the Henry Hudson Drive for an hour, listening to WOR-AM, and then I would wax it curbside.
Four months later, I sold it back to Augie, the man I’d bought from. I lost $500 in the deal.
The third car, I won’t tell you much about. Let’s just say I was a new father and the Volvo station wagon salesman was very persuasive.
Three years ago, I bought a tiny Honda motorcycle from a man in the street. He was an artist and needed the cash to replace his dentures. I drove it to my office once. On 10th Ave and 25th Street, I stopped at a light between two enormous 18-wheelers who slowly came together like the walls in the Death Star’s trash compactor. A voice in my head said, “Well, at least now you know how you’ll die.” That afternoon, I found the toothless artist and sold his bike back to him. I lost $250 in that deal.
When I was nine, my grandfather’s chauffeur drove me through the streets of Lahore to school every morning. After a year of this routine, my grandfather, worried about my sense of direction, told me that the next day I was to direct the driver myself on how to get to school. Two hours later, we were stopped by the guards at the Indian border. We were ninety-six miles from school.
When we got to LA three weeks ago, Jenny rented an enormous SUV. I think it was a Ford Brobdingnagian. I drove it, white-knuckled, to IKEA three times and then begged her to exchange it for an actual car. We got a regular-sized Nissan Something that smelled of stale smoke.
Last Thursday, I visited my old friend Tommy McG in Venice. I parked the Nissan outside his house, and then we walked down to the beach and had a drink on the rooftop of a hotel. A couple of hours later, we walked me back to my car. “Huh,” he said, “it sounds like your engine is running.” I shrugged and got into the shuddering car. At least there was still gas in the tank, and I had remembered to lock the doors.
(Lest all of these facts give you pause, you should know that I have been using New York City subway trains and taxis, without incident, since 1973.)
Okay, so I now own a truck. It’s very basic. It’s also in decent shape considering it’s twelve years old and other people have already driven it 150,000 miles. In LA, when you drive this sort of vehicle, people assume you are a gardener. I have no problem with that.
Why a pickup truck? Well, so I can transport all sorts of things, yet to be determined. It’s the kind of thing people do out here, moving big things from one place to another. There’s huge amounts of room, huge stores, huge roads. So you just need to be ready to haul something huge at a moment’s notice.
Another really cool feature is that I can carry a folding chair and table in the bed of the truck. Then I can drive anywhere, unfold, and have an amazing drawing platform.
And finally, I can now wear a cap. And maybe grow a horseshoe mustache.
Honk if you see me!
Actually, don’t. It’ll just make me nervous.
Your pal,
Danny
P.S. As I said at the outset, I wrote this essay a while back. I no longer have the truck or that sweet ‘stache. They have been replaced by an electric car that drives itself.
P.P.S. I believe I told you that I’m doing a new workshop called “Let’s Draw Pets,” but as I can’t remember whether I did, in fact, tell you about it, I thought I’d tell you again (just in case you’d forgotten that I told you, too). Anyway, it’ll be a lot of fun and ultimately unforgettable. If you’d like to sign up for it, click here.
P.P.S. A propos of pets, I just made this video, which I’m almost certain you’re going to really enjoy: