One afternoon years ago, a friend who shall remain unnamed, unexpectedly dropped by my apartment at Avondale Armpits. Avondale Armpits were apartments in Jonesboro, located on Nettleton just east of the intersection with Church St. They were originally designed to be a Holiday Inn, but somehow the deal fell through while that place was under construction. They were converted to apartments, crappy apartments. Crappy Apartments that looked like they were supposed to be a Holiday Inn. Anyway, my friend shows up and he’s all cleaned up. He’s dressed like he’ going to the Country Club. No shitty sweats or faded jeans. His hair is combed. He looks like he’s got a court date. He tells me that he wants me to go with him to test drive a car.
I knew my friend couldn’t afford to buy a car, so I hesitated. I confronted him with his dire financial situation, and he confirmed that he did not have the means to actually purchase a car at this time. He told me that he didn’t have any intention of buying the car. He just wanted to test drive it. It was a BMW. He had never driven a BMW and wanted to see how it drives. Just curious, he said. “It is, after all, the Ultimate Driving machine”, he said.
I had test driven cars I had no intention of buying. I used to test drive 72 Mustangs every time someone had one for sale. I didn’t have any money. I couldn’t buy one, but I could carefully test drive one around someone’s neighborhood and pretend it was mine for just a few minutes. This test drive made sense to me. I understood. So, I agreed to go with him. This may have been a mistake.
University Motors had the car. It was an early 1980s BMW of some sort. It was shaped like a shoe box with wheels. Volvos are boxy but safe. BMWs were boxy but they handle like they are on rails. I had never been in one. This might be fun, I thought. Mistake number two.
I got in my friends crappy, beat up sixty something Mustang and we drove down Caraway heading to the car lot. University Motors had only recently relocated to Caraway Road right across from the ‘new’ Holiday Inn. The ‘old’ Holiday Inn was located on Matthews at Union and ceased to be a ‘Holiday Inn’ in 1975 when the ‘new’ Holiday Inn was built on Caraway. My apartment complex only looked like a Holiday Inn, but had never actually been one. My friend parked his beat up, rusting, oil burning Mustang beside a very nice, very shiney, second hand Porsche 911.
A salesman came trotting out to greet us. By the time he got to us, my friend was already setting in the drivers seat of the BMW. He made himself comfortable in the seat, and with a knowing eye, examined every instrument in the instrument cluster. The salesman was suspicious of us from the start. He started in with all the ‘pre-qualifiying’ questions salesmen use to figure out if they have a ‘viable’ customer. My friend lied like a pro.
Yes, he had a job (He didn’t). He was a CPA for Boatman’s Bank in Memphis (He wasn’t). He’s been there for 5 years (What?)….just passed the CPA exam last year (Seriously?). It was a bitch (He wouldn’t know).
No, the P.O.S. Mustang was not his car (It was). His wife (he has no wife) has a Oldsmobile stationwagon (he has no Oldsmobile stationwagon). He drives a Camero (He has no Camero). It’s in the shop again, and he plans on trading it in. He came with his friend (me) in my car (his P.O.S. Mustang) to look at cars (the BMW) he might want to purchase (drive).
Suddenly, I understood why I was here. I remained quiet, occasionally nodding while my friend wove this tale. My friend, who ironically struggles through life with a profound, nearly crippling phobia of spontanious human combustion, lied with the dexterity of a man who has no fear of burning in hell for his sins.
Finally, it was time to test drive the car. My friend drove. The salesman got in the passenger seat, and I was in the back seat. My friend cautiously turned right out of the University Motor’s parking lot and onto Caraway Road. He carefully merged onto the entrance to the bypass. The salesman quickly said we don’t need to go on the bypass, but it was too late. My friend opened up the throttle and we were pressed deeply into our seats, accelerating down the entrance ramp as hard as the BMW would go. Trying to be heard over the screaming German engine, the salesman loudly demanded that my friend slow down. My friend explained that if he was going to buy a performance car, he needed to know how it performed. The salesman was getting more than little upset and ordered my friend to immediately get off the bypass. We were probably going 120 MPH at this point. We were on the bypass rapidly approaching the exit for Browns lane. Acceeding to the request to get off the bypass, my friend took the exit at Browns lane like a pro on a road race course. Down shifting to give up speed without loading up the front end, we reached the curve in the exit at probably 60 mph. The BMW lived up to it’s reputation and made the turn, tires sqeeling, without problems. The salesman was coming unglued. I had been slung across the backseat of the car like a sack of groceries. While the salesman demanded that he stop now, my friend took the first right on Brown’s Lane which happened to be the entrance to the Services Center. It had a two lane drive around it with numerous 90 degree turns. My friend explored every aspect of the performance envelope of the BMW as we flew around the circuit. He was pushing it through the turns at speeds that were not just uncomfortable. They were nausiating. The salesman was no longer screaming at us, but he had turned green.
As we entered each curve, the salesman, bracing himself with one arm on the dash and the other gripping the arm rest on the door, screamed for my friend to slow down. My friend accomplished by a downshift which caused an abrupt deceleration. This seemed to upset the salesman stomach more and more. He eventually lowered the window and began to heave down the side of the car. The air coming in the open window reeked of hot rubber, burnt oil and vomit. On exiting each curve, my friend ran the RPMs well into the power curve before speed shifting. The car would leap forward on each shift. I had failed to use the seat belt, so I was being slung from one side of the car to the other as the car dove into turn after turn. At this point, the salesman was simply hanging on for dear life.
It was at the end of our third lap around the Services Center that the State Police got involved. Who knew their regional headquarters was at the Services Center? They flagged us down as we passed in front of their HQ and we obliged by stopping. We were quite surprised when a State Police cruiser pulled up by us moments later. They had been chasing us since the end of the first lap and just couldn’t catch us. Finally one of the troopers from inside HQ had come out and flagged us down on our next pass in front of the HQ.
My friend and I sat on the curb, while the salesman talked to the State Trooper. The salesman was a little irate and wanted us arrested. I felt that was a little bit excessive. In the end, we weren’t arrested, but my friend did get a “Reckless Driving” citation. The salesman was being pretty pissy about all this.. He wouldn’t let us back in the car, so we had to walk back to University Motors to get the P.O.S Mustang. We were fortunate to get there when we did as they were preparing to tow the Mustang off the lot. Let’s just say there were some pretty hostile stares coming from the salesmen when we walked across the lot to the Mustang. With a cloud of blue smoke and the musical clatter of very poorly adjusted valves, we drove away.
A little while later, while we were relaxing, laughing about the test drive and enjoying drinks at the Jube, I casually perused the Jonesboro Sun classifieds. Someone was selling a Jag. It was a white XJS. I had never driven a Jaguar XJS.
It occurred to me that the BMW may not actually be the Ultimate Driving Machine.
The Ultimate Driving Machine might well be any car on a test drive.
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