The Black Car
you are not what you drive
It was actually silver. The Lincoln Town Car that my Dad had bought. I was about 9 or 10yrs old and I couldn’t understand how we could even afford it. Our family were immigrant refugees from Vietnam. We had been operating a small coin-op laundromat in Queens for a few years. But somehow my Dad had saved up enough money to buy what was ostensibly a high-end luxury car back in the mid 80’s. It didn’t make any sense to me.
Then I saw the stickers.
It was just four little letters on the sides and trunk: UTOG
Surprisingly, they’re still in business. The car would be used strictly for work. My Dad would start driving for a “Luxury Executive Transportation” service. Black cars for rich and busy people. Usually business people, doctors, lawyers, etc. He was a glorified NYC cab driver, with not much better pay or benefits. Today it’s known as UBER. And drivers are still getting screwed over.
I’ve always disliked black cars. Despised them, regardless of brand or design. We’ve had a string of 6 or 7 blue or white cars in the last 12 years. Guess I like getting new cars. But we’ve never bought a black one. Must be some traumatic story from my childhood. Well then, let me tell you about it…
Christmas Eve, 1988 — I was about my son’s age. Old enough to know everything, while not really knowing much of anything at all. I knew that we celebrated Christmas, because my Mom is Roman Catholic, and it was the one time a year when the family was together, and happy. We actually got more than one present each that year. I guess the family business was doing okay.
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Our family had a tradition of staying up late on Christmas Eve, and opening presents just past midnight. It makes it hard to believe in Santa Claus, but we never had that type of childhood. Growing up in gritty NYC in the 80’s, life was a constant stream of harsh realities, and you just got a little stronger each day. That night, my Dad did his usual thing. We closed the laundromat, and he went to work his second job. Driving rich people around Manhattan.
He promised he would be back for Christmas Eve dinner, and I was only a bit disappointed when he didn’t take his seat at the head of the table, before we started eating. Surely he’d be back home soon, before we would even start guessing what was in those boxes under the tree. But 9pm became 10, then 11. I was getting nervous. We didn’t have cell phones then. Was my Dad okay?
Midnight came, and the joy of presents was tempered by the fear of something worse. We had no way of contacting my Dad. We could call the car company, and ask dispatch for his last known location, but I don’t remember if we did that. I just remember being worried. I didn’t know how much my Dad meant to me before that night. I don’t think I opened up my presents. I cried a bit and fell asleep. I was at the age of strange nightmares and night terrors. My brain was always overactive, and that evening’s stories in my mind were the worse.
The next morning I awoke to see my Dad reading the newspaper at the table. What a relief! He was okay after all, and everything was right with the world again. But then I got mad. Why didn’t he come back last night? How could he forget about us on the most sacred night of the year? Christmas was bigger than birthdays in our household. Why did he miss our most cherished tradition? I asked my Dad what happened, and I’ll never forget his reply:
I was working.
Those three words hit me so hard. What could be so important that he would work through the evening, and well into the early morning hours? Turns out it was some big-time Wall Streeter, who had to get home to his family in southern New Jersey. Some other Dad deemed it important enough to spend Christmas Eve with his kids, and my Dad agreed with him. Rich people man.
I don’t know why my Dad took that last fare, going that far out, that late in the night. I do know he missed quality time with our family, so someone else could have it with their family instead. Fucking New Jersey!
I just got a black car. I plan to use it for work. But I’ll never use it for “working” instead of spending time with my kids. It looks great. I still might wrap it in a different color. Some things are just hard to get over. I’m still working on it.
