A Fistful of Fig Newtons (20 page)

On the other hand, The Camper Crowd has seen its beloved conveyance put to other than clean-limbed, nature-loving purposes. For example, a notorious string of Mafia-controlled bordellos operated very successfully (and in fact still do) out of a string of true Recreational Vehicles, complete with red plush interiors, brass spittoons, and in at least one case, a four-channel tape deck specializing in Turn-of-the-Century Whorehouse Piano.

The driving styles of both sects are as opposed as their philosophies. The Camper Crowd seems to be totally oblivious of
any other machine on the road, ponderously rumbling with tanklike stolidity right down the exact middle of the turnpike. I have seen three hundred cars held up for hours by two or three strategically placed campers.

Naturally, there are exceptions in both groups and you’ll occasionally see a lunatic Winnebago driver careening along at eighty-five plus, reminding you of nothing so much as a runaway Cape Cod house on wheels with a baboon at the tiller, but generally The Camper Crowd’s driving style is as conservative as its politics.

In contrast, The Van Culture mostly drives its badly sprung, unstable, underbraked, high center of gravity, overloaded hulks as though they were so many Porsches. In fact, recently in a Howard Johnson on the Jersey Turnpike I got into a rap with a Jersey state cop who spends the days of his life patrolling the infamous NJP.

He got up, paid for his coffee, and left.

It was after this discussion that I got to thinking about the whole new Van Culture and all the good things it’s brought to America; a new sense of togetherness for one. By the very nature of the van it tends to create crowds, and this can have, ultimately, a profound effect on our social structure, perhaps bringing together human beings after the splintering of the family group during the latter days of the seventies.

In fact, it’s already happening. The Charles Manson family was carted around over the landscape by its guru in a succession of vans, stolen and otherwise. The old Spahn ranch was never without a half-dozen vans liberally larded with
Peace
signs and
Love
stickers, all gassed up and ready to go out on another exciting hit. In fact, several of the murders attributed to the Family were over disputed ownership of vans. Manson also utilized a used school bus, seats removed, carpeted with old rugs, to house
his bevy of love-conscious females before they finally settled down to good solid family life at the ranch. In one sense, Manson was a true social innovator.

So there you have it, class. Today’s discussion of The Van Culture. I don’t find it necessary to remind you that questions about this subject will appear on the blue book exam at the end of this semester.

I’ve done a lot of writing over the years about cars. I really do believe that in many ways, automobiles are one of the very few universal realities of American life in our century, like the horse was to people before 1900
.

The horse. My mind greedily grasped at a new thought. I glanced in the mirror. The guy behind me seemed to have fallen asleep
.

I play these little games when in cars alone, or in reception rooms waiting for Mr. Big to summon me. Sort of like Twenty Questions: the words that the horse has contributed to our language: Put on the feed bag, Horse feathers, Put out to pasture, Horse of another color, stop Horsing around
.

I chuckled. That’s what I’m doing, horsing around. How come the car hasn’t done the same thing? Hmmm. That’s certainly a Chevy of another color. He’s going out to suck on the old gas pump
.

Not bad. I remembered one madly self-destructive moment I perpetrated as a writer. I banged on the steering wheel. Why the hell do I always do these things?

General Motors publishes a magazine called
Friends
. It is a
cheery, well-produced, colorful little monthly that, I guess, goes to people who buy Chevys. Maybe the name
Friends
means that if you buy a Chevy, you’re one of their friends
.

Anyway, in all innocence, they asked me to do a piece. So what did I do?

Well, I had my semi-annual lunch the other day with my friend Howard. Howard and I shared KP together in the Army, and there’s something about pulling KP with a guy that draws you together. Howard works at a small but highly respected public relations agency known on Madison Avenue as “B&W.” Actually, their full name is Bugle and Weakfish, but “B&W” has more snap to it.

I found him in the gloom of the elegant bar of Les Miserables du Frite, a French watering hole frequented exclusively by expense account types. Actual money–dollars and quarters and stuff–hasn’t been seen in Les Miserables du Frite since the Truman administration. Howard was staring gloomily into his triple Wild Turkey on the rocks. I eased onto the stool beside him.

“Hi.” I greeted him coolly, as is the practice in these expense account joints, since everyone pretends he is at a business meeting and not a social whoopee. You never know when the bartender may be an undercover agent for the IRS.

“How are you, Old Sport?” I asked over my daiquiri.

“Rotten,” he muttered. “I mean rotten. This has been one hell of a day.” He took a deep slug of his Wild Turkey, making his eyes water. I could see he really was in a foul mood.

“Well, what’s up, Howard?”

“Did you by any chance read the damn automobile want ads in the
Times
this morning? The Classic & Foreign section?” He angrily chomped at a pretzel.

“Why no, Howard, I can’t say that I did. What’s the flap?”

He instantly whipped a tattered clipping out of his jacket pocket, glared at it, and barked:

“Let me read you this: ‘Sixteen-thousand-dollar Lemon for sale: 1979 Anaconda XGD Super-Wasp, retailing for thirty-one thousand plus available now at above price. Will supply buyer with twenty-four free bottles of Excedrin, which he will need, plus long list of Anaconda Super-Wasp dealers who claim they cannot fix this magnificent Lemon. No dealers please.’ ”

He slammed the clipping down on the bar in anger. “God knows how many people read that this morning! The phone’s been ringing from all over the country, and I may lose the damned account, just because of this horse’s backside, whoever he is!”

There was a long, pregnant pause, and all I could think of to say was: “Gee, Howie, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had the Anaconda account.”

Howard snorted and laughed a bitter, creaking laugh. “Are you kidding? I never had a car account in my life. Wouldn’t touch ’em.” He swirled his drink with a swizzle stick like a man poking at a nest of hooded cobras.

“Well, then, what’s all the flap?” I asked.

“I am the number-one man on the NLGA account, brother, the big honcho, and I can tell you the fat is truly in the fire!”

“N-L-G-A?” I asked. “Isn’t that one of those new basketball leagues?”

“Look, buddy”—Howard sounded very serious—“I am in no mood for funnies, not today. The NLGA, for your information, is the National Lemon Growers Association, and I can tell you, the lemon industry has had it up to here with all this bad-mouthing lemons. Every time some fatheaded car company turns out a bummer, what does everyone call it? A lemon! Why a lemon, I ask you? Why not a cantaloupe, or a banana? For my money, bananas are a hell of a lot funnier than lemons. And you notice they use the word ‘lemon’ as a put-down? If something is bad, it’s a lemon, meaning, of course lemons are bad.”

Howard paused for breath. His face was getting a bit purple. His neck muscles were bulging.

“Gosh,” I said soothingly, “I never thought of that, Howard. You’re right. My old man used to call his Hudson ‘the lemon of the century,’ but until this very moment I never thought why bad cars are called lemons and not watermelons or cabbages.”

Howard began speaking again in a low monotone, as one speaks in a bad dream:

“The NLGA spends millions every year trying to upgrade the lemon image, and one bird-brained ding-dong takes an ad out in the
Times
and blows it! Someday I’m just gonna quit this racket and take up fly-tying. It’s not easy being a PR man for a lemon, I can tell you that.”

“Oh well,” I said, trying to calm troubled waters, “what the hell, we all have our troubles, Howard.”

He thought about this for a moment and then answered in a thoughtful tone, “Yes, that is true. Have you ever heard of the BNAs?”

“No. Is that a new wonder drug?”

Howard chuckled. “BNA stands for Bad News Accounts. It’s a little group of us account men who have really bad accounts. We meet every Friday after work at Michael’s Pub and get drunk together. Misery loves company, and every one of us, to get in the group, has to have a really bad news account. Me, I got lemons.”

We ordered another round of drinks and, to be polite, I asked him, “What are some of the other BNA’s? I mean, what kind of accounts are they?”

“Well,” Howard said, “there’s old Pres Schuyler for example. Prescott Schuyler III. Dartmouth. You’d think he had the world tied up in a blue ribbon with silver filigree bells on it. Y’know what? He represents the ABA.”

“Come on, Howie,” I interrupted, “now I know they’re a basketball crowd.”

“Not Pres’s ABA,” Howard snorted. “He represents the American Baloney Alliance. This is the national association of baloney
makers, and let me tell you, Schuyler is fighting an uphill battle with that one. Everywhere you turn, somebody is hollering at somebody else: ‘That’s a bunch of baloney,’ or ‘What a lot of baloney that is, you fathead.’ Always bad-mouthing baloney. Nobody ever says, ‘What you just said is liverwurst, or salami, or olive pimento loaf.’ It’s always baloney that gets put down. They do it on TV! Kojak is always saying to some drug pusher, ‘That’s baloney. Now gimme the real dope.’ One day Schuyler’s gonna kill himself. He can’t get anyone to say a good word for baloney.”

“Frankly, Howard,” I said, “I’ll never use those phrases again myself. Are there others?”