The Simca.

The Simca was my first car. I bought it in the summer between my junior and senior years in high school. It cost $250.

(That isn't the actual car.)

It is hard to describe the pleasure that car gave me. Inside, it smelled like an old car, even better than a girl smells. ... ... ... Well, no, but you get the idea.

NY is kind of picky about driving... or was. Every driver needed a license, and every car needed both plates and insurance. They became really annoyed when those things didn't happen. I had the car and I had a learner's permit, but I had no insurance and no plates. Insurance was the big sticking point, and I was saving almost everything from my summer job.

Every day I went out and drove the Simca forward and backward in the driveway. It was euphoric. I probably put 100 miles on it, going back and forth. One day I just couldn't stand it anymore, and I decided to drive the Simca around the block. It went uneventfully until I approached the last turn before getting back to the safety of my driveway. There was a stop sign at that intersection, and a police car with a policeman inside was parked right there. My body went cold, but there was nothing I could do. It was a short block, and he would surely notice if I made a U-turn. So I pulled up to the stop sign, knowing that my car without plates was as noticeable as Howdy Doody in the nude, and tried to play it a lot cooler than I felt. Somehow, he didn't notice me. Needless to say, perhaps, I didn't try that trick again.

School had started when I finally had enough money for insurance. I registered the car, got my plates, started driving to school. I was ecstatic. A BMOC. Not to mention that I didn't have to ride buses, which I hated, anymore. It was just so great.

Every plus has a minus, it seems. And my minus was having to drive Richard D. to and from school. He was in my class and he lived right behind me, so I had little choice. He was a fat kid whom I didn't like, but I was stuck.

The second week of using the Simca to commute to school, I was driving home with Richard next to me. I was on James Street in Syracuse, a 4-lane street with a 35 MPH speed limit. I was driving properly, when a car full of other kids from our class started driving to my left. They were laughing and giving me high fives. BMOC. I was gesturing back at them, when the guy in their passenger seat looked forward. His face immediately took on a terrified look, so I looked where I was going. A Niagara Mohawk power truck was stopped at a light right in front of me. I slammed on the brakes.

After the collision, the silence was profound. I could smell metal and exhaust. When I realized that I was okay, except for a broken nose, I looked at Richard. He had hit the windshield and it had split his forehead from one side to the other. I could see 3/4 of an inch of fat under his skin. But he was conscious.

Needless to say, perhaps, that was the end of the Simca. It was totaled. A policeman said if I'd been going 5 MPH faster, we both would have been decapitated.

It was a learning experience.