Note: I learned a few things from my last column: Joni Mitchell is not dead, I’m an unstructured writer and a chronic asshole. Apparently, Janis Joplin (not Joni Mitchell) offed herself in the seedy hotel on Sunset.
My dad loves cars — pretty generic statement, right? But, really the way my dad loves cars is completely unique. He loves cars in a loyal and sentimental fashion, and for the most part I don’t agree with him, except with regards to The Banger.
Before you let your imaginations run away with the name — The Banger, and I must emphasize that it is not just Banger, but The Banger — derives from a particular type of sausage. Brits eat this dish called Bangers and Mash; bangers are the sausages and mash is short for mashed potatoes. The reason the sausages are called bangers is because if you don’t poke them with a fork before you cook them, they explode. Pretty cool … wow, I suddenly have an intense hankering for Bangers and Mash.
Actually, there was a guy that I worked with who had a band called Bangers and Mash. I have his CD. The whole album is done in a pseudo-Cockney accent. Priceless …
So, back to The Banger — ah, The Banger — the vessel for so many hot and sticky family trips: legs melting into the grubby cream vinyl in the back seat. I can’t even try and describe the seat belts … I should probably clarify that The Banger is a 1976, orange Toyota Corolla: no air conditioning, no power steering, one radio station — the evangelical channel.
On summer holidays we would load up The Banger with heaps of sailing equipment and rush down to Mission Bay, if Mumu, after examining the way the wind ruffled a palm tree in our back yard, declared, “Seven knots, at least!” Mumu would pack an exquisite picnic, my older brother Mr. A and dad would rig up The Banger with all the equipment. Meanwhile I lazily licked triple-scooped Rocky Road ice cream from a store-bought cone, and never offered to help anyone. If I my assistance was required, I made sure that I botched the job so badly that such a request would never be made again. One, two, three, four of us piled in The Banger, eager for a day of sailing, sun and sand … and so began the makings of a WASP.
Although the setting of Mission Bay was Edenic, invariably one member of the family would be in a foul temper from toothache, irritable tummy, general anxiety or garden-variety perturbation. Sand would fly in the pasta salad, or the popo would circulate, making mom and dad ditch their stash of cool beer, or the sailing knots would tangle, the sails would fuss and the wind would die.
From the wind, salt and sand, I would develop an untamable WASP-fro and would feel the pleasant achy tiredness from a day combating nature. The Banger would escort us to La Salsa, and the four of us would eat enormous burritos and corn chips with 20 kinds of salsa. That was my favorite part: the burritos … well the picnic was amazing too. I guess my entire day revolved, and still revolves, around food. (Just as an aside, the only long term relationships that I’ve ever had were with men who cooked for me — every night. This column was an attempt to stop talking about my disgraceful/pitiful personal life, but I couldn’t resist.)
Although The Banger was initially only used as the beach car, it came out of semi-retirement when I turned 16. I learned how to drive with The Banger: a stick shift with no power steering, radio or air conditioning — that was fun to do in L.A! But I loved this car because it didn’t have a fussy clutch. You could start that sucker in third gear and it wouldn’t stall.
At prep school, which was the worst combination of Beverly Hills 90210 and Laguna Beach, the kids made fun of my car, but I stood staunchly by the old Bang-Bang. Out of a whole gleaming sea of Mercedes, Saabs and Land Rovers, someone thought it would be funny to slash The Banger’s tires. I was new at school too, so there wasn’t even a legitimate reason to attack my car, except for the fact that it was old and unfashionable. Still, it got me from A to B. God, I loved that car.
Yesterday, I found out that dad traded it in. More accurately, he gave it away to be squashed. We got a hybrid. I’m really proud of dad for finally moving on … for being green and doing the hybrid thing. But the old Banger had been in our family for over 30 years.
When I came home from my various dalliances as a ballerina, I used to tool around Pasadena, listening to fundamentalists rant on the one station The Banger picked up. It brought back so many memories of the dates I didn’t have and the parties I wasn’t invited to in high school.
Still, that car — though it was ancient and unfashionable — ran and ran and ran and ran … it never gave up. The Banger, that sausage shaped orange, hatch-back that stood up to ridicule and censure, that proudly cruised down the Hollywood freeway at 20 miles per hour, and went from zero to 60 in two days.
Now that The Banger has been mashed, I hope it is somewhere up in car heaven. I wonder what happens in car heaven; maybe really hot chicks will drive it up and down Rodeo Drive, or it will sit with some fully functional family by the beach in the shade.
Wherever you may be, my little Bang-Bang, may you rest in peace.
Claire Readhead is a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences. She can be reached at clr39@cornell.edu [1]. Silk Blue Stockings appears alternate Mondays.
Links:
[1] mailto:clr39@cornell.edu