Driving, two

The next time we took the corvette on a road trip, it had a headache. Or maybe the sniffles. Not anything lethal, but enough to require a push and a prod and a shove to get it out of bed. Ever notice how beautiful things and beautiful people, things and people beautiful on the outside, usually have grave problems under the hood.

That was the vette. Well, that was John, too.

I’ve known three people in my life who were aesthetically perfect, in form, in face, in feature. It wasn’t just that he had physical harmony. Yes, everything was where it should be. But in addition to this, John had a breathtaking handsomeness, almost like a halo. Something to do with coloring and expression. Even other boyfriends of mine who hated his guts, used the word “beautiful” when he came under discussion. As a pejorative, like a curse.

All John’s life, people would warm their hands on his perfect symmetry. He couldn't help but notice the crush of good will that always came his way. Which was a blessing of a sort, but made his life, ironically, lopsided.

I think perfect beauty and great wealth have similar disadvantages. Those who possess either one, never develop basic skills, tricky skills, even nasty ones that gird the loins. I must have played chess with John 100 times, and he never won. Not once. He was smart, really smart, but he lacked all guile.

But this is about the car. And our drive to Mexico. And broadsiding a bus somewhere south of Rosarito.

I think corvettes are made of something insubstantial – their covering particularly. So though we didn’t hit the bus at more than 30 miles an hour, it took a toll on us. The first one to rush to our car was a lawyer, asking if we had traveler’s insurance. Then a long string of people exited the bus, and the lawyer ran to interview them.

When the Mexican police came to escort us to the station, we were verily afraid. We verily had open wine bottles in the car and a little something-something in the glove box. We followed the police to the station. The corvette’s crushed front end made the tire go wikedy-shh-shhh against the bumper.

And I knew, all that kept me from a lifetime in Mexican prison would be John. And his great beauty. And the power of his beauty to make people overlook certain obvious transgressions, behave as they wouldn’t otherwise in daily life; forgive, just to see him smile.

I waited in the car, and John came out of the station 20 minutes later. “Keep looking at my face, but get my wallet out from under the seat. Take out two hundreds, and when I hold your hand, give them to me.”

He took the money and went back in the station. Then he returned with a crudely typed sheet of white paper and told me to drive, slowly away. Wikedy-shh-shhh, wikedy-shh-shhh.

We drove back to the hotel at Rosarito Beach and rented two horses. The ponies were willing, so we galloped up and down the hills until they and we were tired. Then we packed up the vette, and on our way out of town, stopped to buy a huge wicker basket and rescue a small puppy we had played with on the beach that week.

At the border, we gave the guard the sheet of paper. It said we had collided with a cement truck and paid a $50 fine for running a stop sign and were free to leave. But there was still the matter of the dog in the basket, so I had a long list of items to read to the guard when he asked if we had anything to declare. “Oh my, yes, we bought two blankets, one red and blue, one blue and green. We bought two ceramic bowls, one with handles, one without. We bought three wicker baskets, one…” He waved us through.

We drove back up to Los Angeles. Wikedy-shh-shhh, Wikedy-shh-shhh.

He probably told me I was brilliant. I may have told him he was beautiful. That's the way I like to remember it, anyway.