As a recent retiree with a valid driver’s license, it appears that I am now a free carpooling service for the young and/or without a car.
In this capacity, I often pass through my old neighborhood in East Northport. And it brought back memories of some bad decisions I made regarding a beige 1966 Mercury Comet. It was 1975, I was 21 years old and I lived above Mama Jean’s Pizzeria, now La Sunamita Deli on Laurel Ave.
I saw a Pennysaver ad about a car for sale. I drove to Greenlawn, saw the car in a dark garage, and since it started on the first try, I bought it.
The owner assured me that it was a spectacular value, that there was no problem, and that it should last forever. That prediction did not come true. It had several problems, especially with the alternator and transmission. Still, when it was running, it had great acceleration. And, like my first car, of course I loved it.
The engine problems increased, however, and after a few months I made an appointment for the morning at a repair shop just down the road from Larkfield Road. Since the car often left me, one night I decided to drive it to the car shop at 2 in the morning, when hardly anyone would see me, saving me the public embarrassment if it shut down during the day.
On the way to the mechanic, my car died about two blocks from the shop and I got out to push it down a stretch of thankfully flat road. I was soon startled to see a police car behind me. I thought of all the fines I might be subject to.
I asked the police officer if I was getting a ticket and he asked, “What for?” I replied, “Are you obstructing traffic?” He pointed out that there was no traffic.
I then suggested, considering the time, “Disturbing the peace?” He said it wasn’t.
“What about driving a motor vehicle without shoes?” For some reason I still don’t remember, I rarely wore shoes in those summer days, and pushing a car down a highway didn’t seem like a reason to change my policy.
“Technically, you’re not operating the vehicle,” he said, emphasizing the “no.” To my surprise, he kindly helped push my car into the shop.
A few days later, my car was fixed and I remember it was a crushing financial blow equal to a week’s wages, about $90. But I had saved some money and walked to my bank near Pulaski Road. But around 4pm I found the bank closed except for the access window.
It felt a little strange being a pedestrian standing in line with three cars in front of me. When it was my turn, I was dismayed to find that “insurance regulations” prohibited me from making a withdrawal.
This was a dilemma worthy of O. henry I couldn’t get the car without the money, and I couldn’t get the money without the car.
So, I tried hooking up on the bank line. A nice lady in a pickup truck came to my rescue. As someone who had hitchhiked all over New England and once in Tucson, Arizona, this would be my shortest hitch, about 10 feet.
I got my money, got my lovely kite back, took off my shoes and went straight to Crab Meadow Beach!
Reader Ann Rita D’Arcy lives in Huntington Station.
