The year was 1985... I was sixteen years old and looking for a car. What I really wanted was a Camaro, but my father had told me many times that the only way I was going to get a Camaro was if angels suddenly flew out of my arse or if barnyard swine took flight or if there was a harsh winter in Hades. Needless to say, my Camaro-getting outlook was bleak. My parents openly offered me their 1972 Volvo many times, but naturally, I balked. I couldn't imagine myself puttering into the high school parking lot behind the wheel of my parent's old lurid pea-green Volvo 144. There, all the kids with their cool Trans Ams, Camaros and Mustangs would laugh and point, and I would be blacklisted by the "in" crowd well into my thirties.

My parents, of course, understood none of this, nor did they care. In their minds, I was being offered a privilege that they never had. They never drove to school, they were dropped off at school. (Probably in horse-driven carriages, to hear them tell it.) My mother claimed to have walked to school, and only got her first car after she saved pennies and nickels for twenty or so years, bought her own car, then taught herself how to drive. Which was difficult, she often reminded me, because she couldn't afford a car with an actual engine, and had to push it everywhere, which made it difficult to work the three speed column shifter. In short, they thought that I should be honored to receive the Volvo because it sure beat the heck out of walking.

Then one day while walking (yes, walking) home from school, I passed a house that I had passed many times before, only this time, there was this neat looking car parked out front with a "for sale" sign on it. It looked like a Pontiac LeMans, only sportier, with pinstripes, a spoiler and a "shaker" hood. Barely aware that I was salivating, I copied the phone number off the" for sale" sign and hurried home while visions of burning rubber danced in my head. I was already formulating my plan. I could just hear myself saying: But Dad, it's just a LeMans. You know, like grandma had that time.

At home, I slung off my book bag and rushed into the living room to the phone and dialed the number. It rang a couple of times, then was answered by someone who did not say "hello" but...

"It's your nickel partner, start talking." So I did.

When I got off the phone, I knew a lot more about the car, and liked it even more. The owner had told me that it was a 1977 Pontiac Can Am, a very rare special edition from Pontiac. It had a 400 cid V8 coupled with a 400 turbo transmission. I also knew that he was only asking 1500.00 for the car, which wasn't much even in 1985 dollars. I wanted that car. Maybe if I told my father that it was a Pontiac LeMans he wouldn't think it was some hot-rodded muscle car and would buy it for me. After all, we had been looking at some Cutlasses and Malibus, and a Le Mans wasn't all that different. As you can tell, I thought my ol' dad was pretty dimwitted in those days.

He wasn't fooled for a minute, of course. I only thought my dad was dim-witted because, at the age of sixteen, I had the intelligence of lint. My dad knew exactly what a Can Am was. So, my motion was vetoed. Such is the life of penniless teen.

I wasn't too long before that car disappeared. I have not seen another Can Am since. It makes me feel a little better to know that the owner of that car now probably regrets selling it as much as I regret missing out on such a classic.

My dad is a grandpa now, and I am a father myself. Consequently, grandparenthood has mellowed him and my mother to the point where I don't recognize them anymore. Given his new laid-back attitude, I decided to bring up the Can Am incident the other day and ask him if he would have done anything different now that he knows how rare the car is. He seemed to ponder this seriously for a moment, then looked at me and thought some more. "Nope." was his only reply. I can't say I blame him. I wouldn't have trusted me at sixteen years old either.

Needless to say, I understand his and my mother's attitude towards me driving the Volvo much better now. My daughter, now nine, will most certainly be offered the 1997 Passport we drive now when she turns sixteen, and she will of course, balk just as I did seventeen years ago. My response will be, just as my father's was back then, "Beats walking."

2001 Steve Wingate