…” He stopped, frowning at me. “What are you looking around for, Meat?”
“Mister Ed. I thought perhaps he’d been stuffed and auctioned off as well.”
He reddened. “You think I’m silly, don’t you? You think I’m totally silly.”
“No, not at all.”
“I guess it does seem a little bizarre,” he admitted. “But, see, I grew up on these shows, Meat. This is my whole childhood, right here. These cars. And now they’re actually mine. I can’t believe it. It makes my heart pound. Can you understand that?”
“I can, Matthew. Do they run?”
“I have a mechanic who does nothing but keep them running. These aren’t museum pieces. They’re my cars for getting around town. What are you driving while you’re here?”
“I was going to rent something when I got to the hotel.”
“What for? Take one of these. Whichever one you want.”
“That’s extremely generous of you, Matthew, but I really can’t see myself zipping around Los Angeles in the Batmobile.”
“Why not? C’mon, Meat. Have some fun, will ya?” He froze, a dark shadow crossing his face. “Gee,” he said softly. “That’s just what Penny used to say to me.” He swallowed, his eyes shining. No, he wasn’t over her. Not even maybe. He shook himself and mustered a smile. “Please, Meat. Take one.”
“Matthew, I’ll be fine. I’ll rent myself something.”
“You sure I can’t talk you into it?” He really wanted to, it seemed.
“Positive.”
He shrugged, disappointed, and we started back outside. As we did my eye caught sight of one car in the back row that I hadn’t noticed before. I stood there, staring. Then, slowly, I went over to it.
“Aha!” cried Matthew triumphantly. “I knew one of ’em would get to you. I should have guessed it would be this one. You’re into machines, not gimmicks.”
I was certainly into this machine. How old was I then? Ten? I’d wanted it desperately. It and everything it stood for. And here it was, thirty years later. Factory fresh. “It’s the real one?” I asked.
“They actually used several through the years, only none of the others were kept up. Just this one. It’s in perfect condition, every inch original—except for the tires, but they’re factory spec.” Matthew thumped me on the back. “It’s all yours, Meat. Sarge’ll bring your bags down. Keys are in the ignition. Tank’s full. The mileage isn’t too hot, but they didn’t worry about such things in those days.”
“They didn’t worry about anything in those days.”
He grinned at me, immensely pleased. “This is just great. I feel so much better about you now, Meat.”
“Do you?”
“Absolutely. This proves it beyond a shadow of doubt.”
“Proves what, Matthew?”
“You are human. I was beginning to wonder.”
The red Porsche was still waiting there across the street. For me. He fell in behind me the second I pulled out of the gate. I took Washington to Robertson, which jogged under the freeway and then angled north toward Beverly Hills. He stayed with me. He wasn’t real steady. Sometimes he was right on my tail. Sometimes he was three or four cars back. Sometimes he stalled it. But he stayed with me. I wasn’t easy to lose in a crowd.
The Corvette strained to run. It had a monster under the hood, a 283-cubic-inch V-8 that put out 270 horsepower. This wasn’t a car for city traffic. This was a car for the open road—a road like, say, Route 66. It’s true. I was behind the wheel of Tod Stiles’s Vette, the ’59 convertible he and Buz Murdock crisscrossed America in—adventure, opportunity, romance, all up ahead for them around the next bend. It was perfectly tuned, pearl white with red body coves and a red interior. Still had the original AM Wonderbar radio, though I couldn’t raise much on it besides talk radio. In Spanish. I rode with the top down. It was dusk now, and the dry air was turning cooler. Lulu rode next to me, nose stuck happily out the window. She didn’t
“Mister Ed. I thought perhaps he’d been stuffed and auctioned off as well.”
He reddened. “You think I’m silly, don’t you? You think I’m totally silly.”
“No, not at all.”
“I guess it does seem a little bizarre,” he admitted. “But, see, I grew up on these shows, Meat. This is my whole childhood, right here. These cars. And now they’re actually mine. I can’t believe it. It makes my heart pound. Can you understand that?”
“I can, Matthew. Do they run?”
“I have a mechanic who does nothing but keep them running. These aren’t museum pieces. They’re my cars for getting around town. What are you driving while you’re here?”
“I was going to rent something when I got to the hotel.”
“What for? Take one of these. Whichever one you want.”
“That’s extremely generous of you, Matthew, but I really can’t see myself zipping around Los Angeles in the Batmobile.”
“Why not? C’mon, Meat. Have some fun, will ya?” He froze, a dark shadow crossing his face. “Gee,” he said softly. “That’s just what Penny used to say to me.” He swallowed, his eyes shining. No, he wasn’t over her. Not even maybe. He shook himself and mustered a smile. “Please, Meat. Take one.”
“Matthew, I’ll be fine. I’ll rent myself something.”
“You sure I can’t talk you into it?” He really wanted to, it seemed.
“Positive.”
He shrugged, disappointed, and we started back outside. As we did my eye caught sight of one car in the back row that I hadn’t noticed before. I stood there, staring. Then, slowly, I went over to it.
“Aha!” cried Matthew triumphantly. “I knew one of ’em would get to you. I should have guessed it would be this one. You’re into machines, not gimmicks.”
I was certainly into this machine. How old was I then? Ten? I’d wanted it desperately. It and everything it stood for. And here it was, thirty years later. Factory fresh. “It’s the real one?” I asked.
“They actually used several through the years, only none of the others were kept up. Just this one. It’s in perfect condition, every inch original—except for the tires, but they’re factory spec.” Matthew thumped me on the back. “It’s all yours, Meat. Sarge’ll bring your bags down. Keys are in the ignition. Tank’s full. The mileage isn’t too hot, but they didn’t worry about such things in those days.”
“They didn’t worry about anything in those days.”
He grinned at me, immensely pleased. “This is just great. I feel so much better about you now, Meat.”
“Do you?”
“Absolutely. This proves it beyond a shadow of doubt.”
“Proves what, Matthew?”
“You are human. I was beginning to wonder.”
The red Porsche was still waiting there across the street. For me. He fell in behind me the second I pulled out of the gate. I took Washington to Robertson, which jogged under the freeway and then angled north toward Beverly Hills. He stayed with me. He wasn’t real steady. Sometimes he was right on my tail. Sometimes he was three or four cars back. Sometimes he stalled it. But he stayed with me. I wasn’t easy to lose in a crowd.
The Corvette strained to run. It had a monster under the hood, a 283-cubic-inch V-8 that put out 270 horsepower. This wasn’t a car for city traffic. This was a car for the open road—a road like, say, Route 66. It’s true. I was behind the wheel of Tod Stiles’s Vette, the ’59 convertible he and Buz Murdock crisscrossed America in—adventure, opportunity, romance, all up ahead for them around the next bend. It was perfectly tuned, pearl white with red body coves and a red interior. Still had the original AM Wonderbar radio, though I couldn’t raise much on it besides talk radio. In Spanish. I rode with the top down. It was dusk now, and the dry air was turning cooler. Lulu rode next to me, nose stuck happily out the window. She didn’t
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