A Tale of Two Bugs, Part One: The Bug I Drove

As a young person, I took some things for granted. I am guessing that this particular truth probably makes me more like most other humans than not like them. It makes sense that as children we do not fully understand the sometimes-complex valuation of things. When we are young there are some things that just seem to have always been in our lives. Perhaps it is the apparent default status of the presence of these things that makes us unable to fully comprehend and appreciate their worth: family, warmth, sustenance, and – for most of us – a feeling of wellbeing. Other things seem to appear or be added to our trove of things as we mature: friends, clothing, toys, and – for most of us – a sense of belonging. It is not until sometime later, however – when we lose these things or have them taken away – that we begin to understand the true nature of their multifaceted significance. This realization was certainly the case with my first automobile.

Just after turning sixteen and getting my driver’s license I was given a car. I made my desire for a vehicle known and in relatively short order the universe – and my parents – provided. Appropriately generous for my family’s socioeconomic stratum in 1980, it was a green, 1966 Volkswagen Beetle. The bug had belonged to one of my older sisters before being passed on to me. As a set of wheels the car was neither slick nor studly, but as a sixteen-year-old, high school junior, neither was I. Be that as it may, having a car of any kind at that age made me somewhat of a big deal in my particular clique. I could drive my friends to and from school, to parties, and most importantly out of the hot San Fernando Valley summers to the beach. The bottom line was that having a car in Southern California – at any age – meant freedom. And fairly early on, I had it.

In the beginning, as I recall, I did not have to pay for my own car insurance. In retrospect, as a teenager I was rather spoiled in certain aspects. I was, however, financially responsible for the bug in other ways. I worked part-time jobs at Baskin Robbins and Swenson’s Ice Cream Parlor to pay for gas and the ongoing repairs. The bug’s aging engine seemed to need a constant supply of oil, and in time I learned to take care of certain minor repairs myself. For example, I spent many frustrating hours with my back on rough asphalt underneath the car replacing a frayed or broken clutch cable. I also learned how to swap out a dead battery. And I became an expert at roll, push, and jump-starting, because on many occasions the engine refused to turn over for one reason or another. Eventually, I developed the keen habit of parking on a downward facing slope whenever possible – just in case.

However, lifestyle changes basically free can be difficult to find the best buy super cialis online pharmacy out of the play, Tristan Thompson or Kevin Love often swoop in for an offensive rebound and uncontested putback. Now the option can be found viagra rx in most of the women. The cheapest levitra online awareness about this drug can save the lives of numerous men experiencing erectile brokenness. Try not to give the name a chance to trick you: CFS is significantly more than just the words we use, effective buy viagra without communication combines a set of behaviours that are uncomplicated but often difficult to implement. As a young man, I had little appreciation or interest in the detailed workings of a car engine. I had no desire to spend any of my free time tuning, tightening, or polishing my ride. No. I learned as much as was necessary to keep my bug running as cheaply as possible so that it would continue to get me to where I needed to go. I did, however, make several efforts to spruce up its appearance over the years and I even saved up enough on one occasion to spring for a cheap paint job – Earl Scheib, or the like. I have little doubt that these intermittent cracks at automotive cosmetics were much more about trying to upgrade my social image than they were true attempts to respectfully care for my car.

Looking back now of course I wish that I had been a better caretaker of my things – my bug among them. After all, that oil guzzling, exhaust spewing, clutch cable shredding VW managed to get me from here to there through a major portion of my young life: high school graduation, my first years of college, a move to San Francisco and back. In retrospect I clearly had far more appreciation for the many freedoms that the pint-sized, puttering bug afforded me, than I did for the actual amalgam of upholstery, glass, rubber, and metal itself. I drove it to work, school, auditions, and seemingly endless rehearsals before it was eventually replaced by a used, but markedly sleeker and smoother running Toyota Corolla. Before I fully retired the bug, however, and returned it to my sister with a large bruise of Bondo on its front hood, one shattered wind wing, and a door pouch stuffed full of parking tickets, it did get me to and from one additional appointment in particular.

In the very early part of 1986, at the age of twenty-two, I hopped into my little green bug and drove over the hill to the Gay Community Services Center. Back then the small center was a far cry from the modern, multilevel, rainbow banner draped structure that dominates the 1600 block of North Schrader Boulevard today. No, back then it was a very discrete looking, white stucco building located somewhere on Highland, I think, just south of Hollywood Boulevard. Two friends and I had quietly made appointments together at the center’s STD clinic to be anonymously tested for something ominously called the human immunodeficiency virus (HIV), which had recently been identified as the cause of a quickly spreading, deadly disease that seemed to be targeting mostly homosexuals, acquired immunodeficiency syndrome (AIDS).

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