May 24: `And along came the editor'

Larry Berteau

I am compelled to join our all-star lineup of columnists.

Shaken by the power of the pen wielded by Tidings' columnists David Morrill, Cathy Shaw, Amy Richard, Patty Perrin and Jeff Cheek, I take to my keyboard like an understudy on a steamy Broadway Saturday night, having been given the nod for the role of Henry Higgins, all the while being unable to carry a tune, speak proper English, wear a three-piece suit or find my way to Ascot.

Nevertheless, "I've grown accustomed to the style," my fair lady.

Mojave Madness

Normally, an editor's life is as sedate as a reptile on a Mojave Desert rock, but this past weekend I was called into civic duty like Clark Kent bumping into a bank heist.

There I was minding my own business, listening to my wife - the woman of perpetual mirth - carry on about the onslaught of summer, making a legal right turn off Nevada St. onto Helman, my trusty steed settling into third gear with a reassuring throttle-down rumble that imbued me with compression bliss.

Having negotiated the turn, I was confronted, not with a bank robbery - there are not many banks on Helman, consequently the direct simile was a virtual impossibility - but a runaway vehicle.

Bearing down on me was not only a fugitive Volkswagen pickup, but two women in hot pursuit - one with arms flailing, the other in a highly visible very-soon-to-be-motherly state.

Turn back

The 60s Volks was traveling backward, veering diagonally across the street, heading simultaneously toward me, or the house with the inviting picture window, depending on how far the vehicle was going to continue on its wayward path.

The next item is critical. Except - as the intrepid editor was to find out later - for a set of car keys in the ignition, the pickup was empty. As in NO DRIVER. It was as unmanned as a Mars probe, and only slightly less intimidating.

I pulled my car over to the curb, and with a glint in my eye surveyed the scene. The possibilities were as numerous as schemata at a draftsman's convention.

It would have been easy to settle for having saved my significant other's life by deftly curbing my car. Or, I could have reached for the cell phone to call: a window repairman, a Volkswagen mechanic, a cop, a gynecologist, or all of the above.

But (remember the glint) there was a rescue to make and time was of the essence.

With the stout resolve of Slow-Talkin-Jones (remember the damsel on the tracks) I leaped from my car and headed for the pickup. Timing was everything. The Volks was gathering speed. The house with the big window loomed, as inviting as a cave in a mountain downpour. The ladies in pursuit were determined, but hopelessly out-horsepowered.

Open the door, jerk

I circled the iron beast and came up alongside. Running at full tilt I jerked open the door - with only a passing thought of "Where's the phone booth?" The boarding was perfect: head down, rear end extended, legs launching the body forward into the cab.

As when a lifetime is replayed in a drowning man's mind, I noticed how spare these old Volkswagen's cabs are. The dashboard looks like it was fashioned by a Hot Wheels designer. The steering wheel is as big around as a linguini noodle. The bench seat is covered with a material that, if it was stumbled upon in any place other than in a vehicle, it could be mistaken for a complimentary checkbook from a Bolivian bank. The interior door handles looked like they should be flushed rather than turned.

Odd time, those 60s.

With the millisecond of Motor Trend review having passed, I went back to the business at hand - a runaway car rescue, remember?

I jammed both feet onto the brake - that's the little unpadded pedal to the right of the other little unpadded pedal in 60s Volkswagen parlance. Dutifully, the old German rambler came to a complete stop, dangerously close to the picture window, but as clear of disaster as an errant October rifle shot whistling harmlessly over Bambi's antlers.

A foster Volkswagen

As it turned out, the Volks did not belong to the ladies in pursuit - they were attempting a rescue just like me - but to a chap visiting friends about four houses up the road.

The rest was all honeysuckle and catfish, autographs and sunglasses. The adoring women surrounded me and, had I been properly dressed for the occasion, would have stolen furtive tugs at my cape.

I left them with a few bars of "It's second nature to me now (this rescue business). Like breathing out and breathing in." I dropped nary an h.

Larry Berteau is editor of The Tidings.