In 1985 I bought a little red two-seater sportscar. At least I thought it was a sportscar. It had hideaway lights and six speakers in its small cabin, two in each headrest. And a five-speed transmission. The engine was in the back and there was barely enough storage room for a sandwich and a pop.
It was only much later that I found out the Pontiac Fiero was built on a Pontiac Acadian chassis and was not really a Ferrari in disguise. And it wasn’t very expensive. But it went like hell and I felt like I was flying an airplane when I was behind the wheel.
The Fiero was a poor man’s Ferrari and being a poor man, it was perfect for me. It was a real head-turner when it first came out in 1984. Its body was made of plastic and at the auto shows that introduced it, young women in bikinis would remove the outer sections completely from the car and reassemble them in about 15 minutes. So, I thought, if I get one of these cars, I’ll get a young woman in a bikini. My plan worked and ironically, I had to get rid of the Fiero when that young woman and I started having children.
My fantasy is to one day own that car again and while I know I won’t get another young woman in a bikini, it might make me feel spry again to cruise around in it.
Shortly after I got the car, I went on a trip to Ireland and left the car at a car park near the airport in Toronto. A friend told me to mark down the mileage and check it when I picked it up because sometimes the guys would take nice cars for a ride when their owners were away. So I did. When I returned, I found that there were 26 more kilometres on the car than when I left.
And walking around the car to check it out, I saw something truly horrible. It had been parked close to a woven-wire fence which bordered on another parking lot. In that lot were a bunch of yellow parking blocks near the fence and they had been spray painted when I was away. The overspray covered the back of my sportscar. My red little number was now red with dozens of little yellow spots all over the back end. Not a nice way to come back from a great trip.
So, I went into the building to straighten up with the car park people and I found an unfortunate young man who bore the brunt of my very legitimate complaints. I was not a happy camper. Paul listened and listened and finally he said, “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.” He then went through a door right behind him and closed it. I waited and waited and waited. Finally, another employee walked by and I hailed him over. When I told him I was waiting for Paul, he said, “Oh Paul’s gone home for the day. He was off at 3.”
Now I resembled Yosemite Sam going off on a rant against Bugs Bunny. Finally, a middle-aged man came over and listened to me sympathetically, took the details of my address, insurance, etc., and said they would look after the paint damage.
You know the rest of the story. I never heard from him – or Paul – again. Instead I spent hours removing the little dots of yellow from the rear of my sportscar, one painful splatter at a time. I
t was a sad day when I drove away from the car dealer in a used, four-door Chevy Cavalier which we bought to replace the two-seater, as I looked back longingly at my sportscar sitting forlornly on the lot. I have good memories of that little buggy despite the odd hiccup. Mechanically, it was a bit of a nightmare but it was also a whole lot of dream come true.
©2011Jim Hagarty
