Danny Shot "Cars" (& 1961 Cadillac Coupe de Ville)

     Danny Shot photo.  Cadillac East Village

 CARS

New Yorkers will never understand

the power derived from driving 

a new car home

in my case a new used car

this time a 2013 Hyundai Sonata

midnight blue whose speedometer climbs

to 160 miles per hour

an arousing number

perhaps beyond my reach.

 

Before this a green 98 Saturn

a utilitarian vehicle from

the last millennium

more plastic than metal

nevertheless a sturdy companion

who survived her share of bumps 

and bruises navigating Hoboken’s

surly stop and go streets.

 

Previously an 87 Chrysler LeBaron

 A car with awful reviews 

in Consumer Reports

that provided the smoothest ride

of my working class life

until she got broadsided by a Mack truck 

on a Harlem Street on the way to work.

Me thinking as the bulldog smashed into my side

“so this is what it’s like to die,

hope it doesn’t hurt too much,”

a crash I walked away from 

unscathed in a state of shock

 

Which was preceded by a 1982 

Buick Regal nothing but trouble

that I should have been wary of

upon purchase from a fortune teller

In the Portuguese section of Newark

a natural low rider without any modifications, 

eventually stolen by wayward teens which 

wound up being a windfall paying back 

in insurance more than the car was 

ever worth.

 

There was the 1980 AMC Eagle

Station wagon with faux wood panels

which took Caroline and I cross country

that had uncontrollable 4 wheel drive

which kicked into gear at the oddest times

and was constantly blowing tires on the

NJ Turnpike for no discernable reason.

 

Which followed a yellow 70 something Datsun

we named Roadkill

because it was in a constant state

of death throws and rattles

emitting a sulphurous stream of black smoke

every time it accelerated through a toll booth

rusted through its chassis yet refused to die.

 

There was the 67 Lincoln Continental

a tank disguised as an automobile 

with suicide doors that comfortably

carried  8 inebriated teenagers to the

1975 Dumont High School Senior Prom

and once miraculously cruised from Amherst

to New Jersey on a half tank of gas

though it got about 6 miles a gallon.

 

And the 62 Studebaker that had a stone 

instead of a carburetor that I used to deliver

Uncle Franks Pizzas in high school until 

it caught fire while driving on Madison Avenue

that the volunteer fire department 

had to put out after only 3 months

of care and ownership. 

 

Which was a replacement for my first

love a white 66 Impala that I bought 

for 40 dollars because it had been hit

by a garbage truck and was mangled

around the trunk but drove until the transmission

went a few months into my ownership

which I nevertheless drove only

in reverse through the streets

of my hometown oblivious to the cops

or the basic laws of physics.

 

Which I bought to ease the pain

of the loss of my 64 Rambler

with push button transmission

which was never really mine but my Dad’s 

bought only a month before he died

and was totaled by my mother during

an ill advised driving lesson

with my brother in law Leo

who was far from a great driver

and was promised to me in theory

when I came of age and which

I surreptitiously drove out the driveway

late nights after Mom was asleep

to pick up my buddies and the Diaz twins

in stoned teen fuck it all New Jersey abandon 

that New Yorkers would never understand.

 

 

My Dad’s many clunkers none more memorable

than the red 48 Chevy with the chrome hood ornament

a naked goddess with voluptuous mid-century

All-American breasts that Steve Martorelli and I would kiss

every morning on our way to school between

first and third grades for good luck 

and because it was a thing to do

who we named Minerva after the mermaid in Diver Dan

planting the seeds of unconditional love

between this man and my newest, my bluest

my darling set of wheels.

                                                                        -Danny Shot