Crystal - 700 Sundays

W e got a new car! I was the most excited kid in the world because we finally got a new car, and I didnt even know what make it was. All my father said on the phone was, I just bought a new car, and its a surprise, so, everybody be out in front of the house because Im going to pull up exactly at noon. So right before noon, we stood in the driveway, my brothers, my mom and I, trying to guess what Dad bought.

Maybe its the Ford Fairlane, Joel, who was fifteen, wondered.

No, I bet its the Bonneville, Rip, eleven, said with authority.

He mentioned something about the Chrysler Imperial, said Mom.

I interrupted, which I always did because I was the youngest and the shortest, which made me the loudest. I was also nine. Wait, he said it was a surprise! What if he got, as I looked up to the sky with hope, a Cadillac? (I swear I could hear angels singing.)

We were silent for a brief moment, all of us considering that heavenly possibility, when we heard Pops honk, and there he was waving, as he pulled up in our brand-new, right-out-of-the-showroom, 1957... gray-on-gray Plymouth Belvedere.

What the hell was he thinking? Of all the cool cars out there, he picks this one? A Plymouth? And gray? Gray isnt even its own color, its a combination of black and white. And two tones of it?

This was not the car of my dreams, but at least it was a new car with big fins, red leather interior and push-button transmission. The Plymouth replaced the only car I ever knew in my life and I was glad to see this car go. It was an embarrassing-to-drive-around-Long-Beach-in big, black, boxy, 1948 Chevrolet. This was an ugly automobile. It had a sun visor over the front windshield, so it looked like the car was wearing a fedora. Sometimes it looked like the car was an old-time film noir detective sitting in front of our house. It wasnt a family car. This was a getaway car. They killed Sonny on the Causeway in this car. Why on earth would he keep this car for nine years?

Two reasons. One, we couldnt afford anything else; and two, my father loved this car. He took perfect care of this car. He even named the car. He named the car Nellie. Men always name their cars after women, and talk about them like they are women. Its always, Shes a beauty, isnt she? Its never, Isnt Ira a great-looking car? Boats are almost always named after wives, daughters, or girlfriends. I have never seen the SS Larry. Even the man who dropped the bomb on Hiroshima named the plane after his mother, Enola Gay:

Hi Mom, I just dropped the A-bomb on Japan and killed eighty thousand people, and I named the plane after you!

Oh son, thank you, I cant wait to call Ida, shes always bragging about her Sidney.

And men talk to their cars, just like theyre womenCome on girl, turn over baby, turn over. Men treat their cars like women: put a lot of miles on them, and eventually they trade them in for newer models.

Toward the end of Nellies life with us, she suffered from post-ignition syndrome or PIS, as Emily Dickinson called it. That meant you would turn off the ignition, and poor Nellie would sputter and spew for a few minutes afterward. It sounded like Nellie was an old woman getting in the last words in an argument:

No, its you. Its you. Not me. Its you. Its you. Its you. Not me. Its you. Not me. Not me. Its you. Its you. Not me. Its you. Its you. Its you. Not me. Its you. Not me. Not me. Its you. Not me. Not me. Fuck you!

So finally we have the new car, with its intoxicating new car smell, which smells exactly like... a new car. We took it out for a ride to celebrate at our favorite Chinese restaurant in Long Beachbecause it was the only Chinese restaurant in Long Beacha place on Park Avenue that we loved, a place called Wing Loo.

We were sitting in the front booth, the picture window behind us, and my dad was in a giddy mood. He had a couple of vodka gimlets, which is vodka, with just a splash of gimlet in it. And every time Mr. Loo would go by, Dad would giggle and say, Whats new, Loo? And the gray-on-gray Plymouth Belvedere was outside, gleaming under the streetlight, as best a gray-on-gray Plymouth Belvedere can. We were having the time of our lives. In other words, a perfect time for something to go wrong.

Big John Ormento was one of the local Mafiosos in Long Beach. There were a number of reputed gangsters living there. In fact in the book of The Godfather, Vito Corleone and family lived in Long Beach. Big John was scary, our Luca Brasi. While we were eating our egg rolls, and drinking our drinks with the little umbrellas in them, we had no idea that Big John Ormento was drunk driving his new car, a 1957, anti-Semitic Lincoln Continental. And he came roaring up Park Avenue, swerved and slammed into the back of the Belvedere, which then slammed into the back of the car in front of it, reducing our new car to a 1957 gray-on-gray Plymouth Belv! The crash was tremendous. We turned around so fast lo mein flew out of our mouths hitting and sticking to the window.

Big John staggered out of his car, surveyed the damage, shook his head a few times and started to laugh.

Oh my God, its Big John, Mom gasped.

Im going out there, said Dad as he started to push his way out of the black leather booth.

Dont, Jack, what if he has a gun? Dad ordered another gimlet.

Ormento ran to his car and took off.

Ten minutes later, Officer Miller was questioning my father. Did you see who did this, Mr. Crystal?