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My four-wheel Vespa was not one of their world-renowned motor scooters. It was a car. A really small car. I don't think my mother ever forgave me. "That's probably the dumbest purchase you have ever made."
I bought the little red car during my junior year of college. No longer living on campus, it was a challenging year of half college credits and a full-time job. And to make it work, I had to commute 28 miles to work, 12 miles to Boston University, then 20 miles home each day. A 60-mile triangle. My bicycle was not up to the job.
I waitressed on Cape Cod for three summers, saving my tips with grand plans to snag some wheels. I was thinking maybe a well-used 10-year-old Pontiac. But once I spotted this brand-new adorable little car, I was hooked. It was different and it was cute... a deadly combination for a 19-year-old with $900 burning a hole in her pocket.
The tiny coupe was a hair over four feet wide and just nine feet long. It weighed under 800 pounds - with an empty gas tank. The tank took two gallons of gas, which I had to mix with 2% kerosene from another small tank. Once, while I was mixing, someone asked me which end the popcorn came out.
The fuel tanks were in the back, next to the 2-cylinder engine - one step up from a lawn mower. Somehow, I managed to ignore the fact that it was made of sheet metal. It sounded tinny - because it was. My clown car look-alike got 60 mpg, but the terrific everyday savings came at a price. I could only crank her up to 50 miles per hour - and that was usually heading downhill. With a tailwind.
I could park it by pulling head-on into a curb and still not stick out beyond the width of a normal car. That little space-saving trick cost me a few tickets from the B.U. campus police. The car attracted a lot of attention. It really was shaped like a toy. I could take along a passenger, but anybody sitting on the rear shelf had to be small enough to sit sideways - preferably under eight years old. I never wanted that responsibility, so I usually put either my textbooks or two bags of groceries behind the seats. Perfect fit.
I was dating a medical student whose irreverent friends thought moving the car was great fun. I would head to my parking space after dinner to ... nothing. The car was nowhere in sight. Very scary for me the first time, and nowhere near as hilarious as they thought. I found it once on a tennis court, once behind a firehouse, and once locked in a delicatessen for the night. The older deli owner unleashed a fury on me I have never forgotten - even though I wasn't guilty.
The crazy med students had a lot of fun at my expense. I was stopped by a trooper for defacing my license plate. "What? I don't understand, officer." He explained that substituting the word GUANO over the state name MASS was not acceptable and carried a substantial fine. I was mentally dividing the fine among the merry medicos when the trooper decided my shock was genuine - and let me go with a warning.
The Boston police officer was not as kind. He found the adult cadaver leg hanging out from under the engine lid somewhat questionable. Unaware of its presence, I couldn't explain it - and the bad boys did pay that fine - after claiming me at the station house. Eventually, I wised up and completed a walkaround inspection every time I drove away from those jokesters.
I think the cheesy chassis was only spot-welded. I learned that the hard way on the highway driving to work one cold December morning. I was in the middle lane, hit a small hole in the road, and winced at the bump - just as the driver's door fell off into the passing lane. I don't know how the oncoming drivers avoided it. Eventually someone slowed down, stopping the traffic, while I managed to drive to the breakdown lane. I drove around for over a frigid week with the door tucked behind my seat before I could get it repaired.
I have no idea how I managed almost two years out of what I finally conceded was a hunk of junk. Some lessons we must learn ourselves.
I waited four years before owning another car. A brand new, sparkling Mustang convertible, fresh off the showroom floor. It wasn't cute. It was drop-dead gorgeous and had a Thunderbird engine.
My mother said it was one of the smartest purchases I ever made.
Marcy O'Brien writes from Warren, Pa.