Another rerun while I battle a deadline. At the moment, the deadline seems to be winning but that's not your problem. It's mine and while I joust with it, you can read this Golden not-too-Oldie that first appeared here in 9/28/14. That is, if you haven't already clicked over to some other site with new content. That's what I would have done.
The first car I ever owned had an identity crisis. It looked like a Buick Skylark and it said "Buick Skylark" on the chassis. Ah, but under the hood, it was a Buick Wildcat — so you got a lot of pep when its engine was installed in the lighter Skylark model. It was a great automobile and even when it got shabby and dented and looked like the Official Car of The Grapes of Wrath, I kept driving it. It simply ran too well to abandon.
It had been my father's. When it came time to trade up to a new (used) car, he gave that one to me instead of trading it in. Like a lot of dependable cars though, when things started to go wrong with it, they really went wrong. One day in 1977, everything went kablooey at once and my trusted mechanic — the great and honest Jack Heyler — told me that even at his low rates, it wasn't worth fixing. "A dealer will give you a couple hundred for it if you're buying a new car from him," he said. Fine with me, as I'd been thinking it was time to ditch the schizophrenic Buick and buy a new car…and not a new used car but a new new car.
Fine with my father, too. He was actually excited. He'd had lots of cars but he'd never purchased a brand-new model, fresh off the showroom floor. He was delighted that his son could afford one. He probably could have too, but he was always worrying about saving for that proverbial rainy day and possible future emergencies. By that point, he was retired and on a fixed pension with no real way to ever up his income.
So he was elated at the prospect of helping me check out all the possibilities, test-drive some, comparison shop, haggle, etc. He loved that kind of thing and would have let it go on for months if he could. First thing, he ran out and bought Consumer Reports and other publications he thought might be helpful. He began casing dealerships, casing the joints and establishing relationships with the sellers. He would have visited every one between here and Detroit to get me, as he put it, "The Deal of the Century."
Trouble was, I couldn't wait for The Deal of the Century and the way it was going, I was starting to wonder which century he had in mind. I had a staff job on a TV show then and had to commute to work each day. The Buick, may it rest in peace, was getting to be like one of those clown cars that goes three feet and the front fender falls off, then it goes three more feet and the back fender falls off, then it goes another foot and the hood flies off and a radiator hose sprays the driver in the face through a hole in the windshield, etc. I should have started the search process six months earlier.
I needed a new set of wheels, A.S.A.P. and I had this mental image: My father's still shopping, still trying to find me the right car for fifty cents less…and I'm sitting motionless in a bucket seat in the number two lane of the Santa Monica Freeway at rush hour holding an unattached steering wheel. Because that's about all that would soon be left of the Skylark/Wildcat.
Finally and politely, I gave him a deadline: We find a car his way by Saturday or I'll just go out and buy one without him. He revved up his little game of pitting dealer against dealer and by close of business Saturday, I had a brand-new Mercury Zephyr…a pretty nice car. It was black with an orange Landau top. It was the 1978 model, the first year Mercury made Zephyrs and not long before the last year they made Zephyrs. I don't know why they stopped. It was a good car, at least for me, at least for a while.
Around 1985 though, I got to think about trading up. Car phones were becoming affordable and plentiful. They were big and clunky and impractical compared to today's cellular miracles that even homeless people seem to have but in '85, they seemed quite magical. One time when I had the Zephyr in for servicing at Beverly Hills Lincoln-Mercury — same place I bought it — I asked a trusted supervisor about installing a phone in it.
He advised against it. The only phone that would fit wasn't a great one and installing it disfigured the car greatly. "Wait a few years until you're ready to get a new car," he counseled. "The ones they're designing now are more phone-friendly." I followed his advice and waited, though I was tempted. Every so often, there'd be an incident where I'd think, "Gee, if I had a phone in the car, I could have saved myself an hour's drive" or something of the sort.
Now comes what may seem like a jarring change of subject…
In 1986, I found myself a semi-involved spectator in a lawsuit. My friend, the eminent author Harlan Ellison, had made some comments in a Comics Journal interview about a prominent comic book writer. The writer took umbrage and sued both Harlan and the Journal. It looked to me like a frivolous suit, the kind a judge should have tossed outta court…but a judge didn't. I never doubted Harlan and the Journal would triumph but it still seemed likely to cost them a nice piece o' change to defend against it. So I helped out with some fund-raising activities and in other, minor ways.
The case went to trial in New York. Early on, one of the witnesses for the plaintiff dragged me deeper into it. As you may know, I moderate a lot of panels at Comic-Con in San Diego. At one years earlier, the writer's name (the writer suing, that is) had been mentioned. The witness testified the discussions on that panel proved that "the industry" (i.e., a few writers) was taking Harlan's comments seriously and the vilifying of the writer was spreading.
Harlan's lawyer, who also happened to be my lawyer, phoned me from Manhattan. By this point, he was 98% certain they would win but, you know, there's always that 2%. You just can't ignore the ominous possibility of that 2%.
So just in case, he wanted me to fly back to New York in a few days and take the stand in rebuttal. Harlan phoned too and I said yes. They needed me so they could introduce into evidence, a transcript of that panel. It would show what was actually said on it, as opposed to the witness's paraphrase. We would also show that what was said could not possibly have been a result of the interview in question because the panel occurred many months before the interview had been published.
I wasn't wild about jetting back to N.Y. just then. It was inconvenient and I'd probably wind up paying the whole cost of it — flight and lodging — myself…but some things in life, you just have to do. I called Brenda the Travel Agent and she found me the cheapest deal, which on such short notice was not all that cheap and not much of a deal. I may have the days wrong here but as I recall, they wanted me to fly back on Tuesday to testify on Wednesday morning. The hearing started at 9 AM and they needed me there an hour earlier so they could make sure my tie was straight and also remind me not to say anything too stupid.
The only flight Brenda could get me on left L.A.X. at 5 PM, which meant I'd arrive at JFK Airport at 1:15 AM, which meant I'd be at my hotel after 2. It was possible but not a lot of fun and if my flight was delayed…well, I decided not to think about that.
Departing at 5 meant I needed to be at the airport here by about 3:30, which meant leaving my house at 2:45. I decided to further complicate my Tuesday by not canceling an important meeting I had out in Encino at Noon. I figured it would last an hour, maybe an hour and a half at most. If I left there at 1:30, it would take me 45 minutes to an hour to get home, grab my suitcase and head for L.A.X. Again, risky but doable.
The meeting was one of several I had with a well-known super-superstar. I will not mention his name here except to say that he was then at about the height of his popularity, having come a long way since he sang with his brothers in The Jackson 5. Oh, heck. I'll give you one more hint: It was not Tito. The folks who programmed Saturday morning cartoons on CBS prevailed on me to develop a cartoon series starring the super-superstar. This was not easy since he'd agreed to it, then had second thoughts and now was not so sure. Eventually, he would decide that it was wrong for his image to be Hanna-Barberized at his age and station in life…but by the time the show was called off, I was outta there. I had long since moonwalked off the project.
I met that day with him and his many associates and somehow, I didn't get out of there until about 1:45. I hopped in the Zephyr and sped home, still narrowly within the confines of my timetable. I was sure I could make it but, of course, I had neglected to consult with my right rear tire. It had other ideas.
I was heading east on the Ventura Freeway, just passing Coldwater when I noticed smoke coming up from the rear of my car. Some motorists honked to tell me I was in trouble just as the Zephyr took a jolt and I figured out what was happening. Other drivers generously cleared a path so I could take the Laurel Canyon off-ramp — which was the off-ramp I was going to take anyway.
I got down to the bottom of it, turned the corner and parked just as my right rear tire — what little was left of it — totally collapsed. The tire was so shredded, it looked like black twine wrapped loosely around the wheel rim. One more minute and I'd have been in far, far greater trouble.
Once before in my life had I changed a tire. I recalled how long it took and what I did to my hands and decided to instead let the Auto Club do what the Auto Club was born to do. The trouble was there was no phone there or anywhere within view. I thought, "Gee, I wish I had a car with a phone in it." Then I walked about five blocks until I found a booth in which Superman was not undressing and called Triple-A.
By the time I got home, it was 4:20. Given the traffic at that hour, it was pert near impossible that I could make that 5 PM flight. Frantic, I called Brenda and told her to rebook. I'd take anything (anything!) but I had to be at the Courthouse in New York City by 9 AM the next morning, preferably 8. She said she'd do what she could but that was after warning me there might not be much she could do.
Fifteen minutes later, she called back. I don't recall now what she'd arranged but the following is not an exaggeration of complexity and inconvenience. I would have to drive down to John Wayne Airport in Orange County, leave my car there and get on a flight to Chicago. Getting there in time would mean two hours on the freeway but it was possible. The Chicago flight would take me to Midway Airport there and then my suitcase (thankfully, a carry-on) and I would grab a cab for O'Hare, catch a flight from there to Nashville, lay over two hours in Nashville, then get on a one-stop flight that was terminating in Newark, New Jersey at 7:35 AM.
If all went well, I would taxi straight from Newark to the Manhattan Courthouse — no place to sleep, no place to shower or change clothes — and arrive there just before 9:00. She added that things might not go well because there were storms all across the mid-west and eastern seaboard and something somewhere would surely be delayed.
Well, you can imagine how delighted I was about all this.
I was just about to begin driving to Orange County on a spare tire when my phone rang. It was not the governor calling with a last minute stay of execution but it was close. It was my lawyer phoning urgently from New York.
"Mark? Mark, you didn't get on the plane, did you?" Obviously, I hadn't but five minutes later, I would have left and he might have had no way of reaching me until I showed up, sleepless and probably dripping wet on the courthouse steps, three thousand miles and twelve hours later. "Thank God I caught you in time," he continued. "The judge is disallowing your testimony!"
It had officially to do with my name not being entered in time on some witness list. "We're going to appeal his decision in tomorrow's session. If we can get him to change his mind, we'll need you to catch a flight tomorrow and testify on Thursday." Later, my attorney decided that it unofficially had to do with something else. The judge, a wizened interpreter of jurists' body language, had realized the case was over, the plaintiff had lost and the jury was eager to vote that way and go home. He was not denying anyone due process but any time he had a decision which could go either way, he was choosing the option that would shorten the trial. Disallowing me shortened the trial.
In any case, at that moment I let out a deep exhale. I called Brenda and told her to cancel the obstacle course she'd booked me on for that evening and to instead give me a flight for the next afternoon leaving around 1 PM. The plan was that the lawyer in New York would have a final decision next morning as to whether the judge would let me take the stand. He'd phone me when they recessed for lunch — between 9 AM and about 9:30, my time — and I would proceed accordingly…either to New York or back to bed.
The next morning, I woke up about 9:05 and decided to just lay there until the phone rang and I found out if I had to go get on a plane. At 9:15, the phone rang. I did not have to go get on a plane.
That meant I could just lay there and decide what to do with this entire day I'd cleared. Well, one thing I knew: I had to go out and buy a new tire for the Mercury Zephyr. Then I decided to redecide what I'd just decided: "No," I actually said to myself out loud. "I'm going to go out and trade in the Mercury Zephyr for a car with a phone in it!" Which is precisely what I did.
I knew my father would be a bit upset that I didn't let him spend months pricing and investigating my next car but that would have meant driving the Zephyr all that time. I didn't want to spring for a new tire on a car I was going to be trading-in before long. Also, the day before had given me two great examples of why it's a good idea to have a phone in one's car. I just wanted to get one and be done with it.
Back I went to Beverly Hills Lincoln-Mercury where they'd taken good care of me and my Zephyr. I test-drove a few vehicles and picked out one I liked. It had, like my old Buick Something, an identity crisis. At the time, the Ford company made two cars that were nearly identical — the Mercury Sable and the Ford Taurus. Same look, same body, pretty much the same interiors. The Sable I test-drove had one intriguing defect in it. On the left rear side of the trunk, they'd affixed a MERCURY logo and on the right rear side, there was a TAURUS logo. So it said it was a Mercury Taurus — perhaps the only one in existence.
After a fast consultation with Consumer Reports, I made an offer with the promise of writing a check for the full price on the spot. The salesguy consulted that mysterious boss-person salesguys always consult, then came back with a counter-offer, $300 higher. I headed for the door. The salesguy stopped me, offered to up the credit for my trade-in by $300 so I'd be paying what I wanted to pay. We shook on it and I wrote a check.
They said it would take about an hour to prep the car and install the phone I wanted. I said I'd be across the street in the International House of Pancakes chug-a-lugging syrup until it was ready and asked the Mercury guys to please not correct the name on the back. But they did. They said, "We were afraid the owner would get upset if you were driving around town with our dealership name on the license plate frame and such a stupid mistake right above it."
Twenty minutes after I drove it off the lot, the phone rang at my parents' house. My mother was out but my father was home and he answered. I broke it to him gently that I'd purchased a new car without him. Disappointed, he said, "Well, okay. When can I see it?" I said, "Right now. I'm parked in front of your house!"
He couldn't believe it. "You have a car with a telephone in it?"
Whatever sadness he had about not being involved in the acquisition dissipated when he came out, got in and I took him for a ride. I even let him call my mother at work. "Guess where I'm calling from," he gleefully told her.
Then I let him call three or four of his other friends so he could brag to them that his son just bought a brand-new car…"And get this! It's got a phone in it! That's right. I'm talking to you from the car! I'm in the car right now and we're driving by the May Company!" That sounds like nothing today but in 1986, it was like I'd bought one of those flying Jetsons cars we all thought would be commonplace by the 21st Century.
That was one happy ending to this story. Another came a few days later when the case involving Harlan Ellison and the Comics Journal went to the jury and they quickly came to the right decision.
Two days after I got the Mercury Taurus Sable, I was driving it out in Reseda when I witnessed a terrible auto accident. Just awful. It involved two pedestrians and four cars, one of which flipped over and another in which two people were instantly killed. I pulled over, grabbed the phone and that resulted in an ambulance and the police arriving there probably five minutes sooner than if I hadn't been able to do that. Then I let some of the victims in the accident — those who didn't need major medical attention — use the phone to call friends or family to let them know or to get assistance. I started thinking, "Everyone should have a phone in their car."
Today, of course, almost everyone does — in their pocket or purse if not in their auto. I could tell you a hundred stories about how cell phones have saved me time or needless trips or enabled me to reach someone or for them to reach me when it was important. But I don't have to because you probably have a thousand of your own. Ain't progress wonderful? And yeah, it was Michael Jackson. You probably figured that out.
