Joseph N. Mazzara
Do you remember the make and model of your first car? What vehicle you were in when you had your first kiss? What car did your father drive when he threatened to "turn this car around right now" if you didn’t stop fighting with your sister? What kind of car have you always wanted to own, but never bought - because it was too expensive or too impractical?
Joe Mazzara takes us on a magical read, using each of the twenty-three cars he has owned, as a milestone for the events of his life. From his first car – a 1962 Chevrolet Corvair, to the three Volkswagen Beetles he owned during college, and the Dodge Shelby Charger he raced during the 1990s, we are reminded that cars are inextricably linked to the times of our lives.
Written with wit, wisdom and a perceptive eye, Pedal Cars & Purple Pickles is a book for everyone. Car lovers will appreciate the informative descriptions of the cars and the companies that produced them. Everyone will relate to the hilarious and poignant stories of human triumph, failure, dreams, and dreams deferred. There is enough satire, humor, and just plain good writing in this book to satisfy the most discriminating reader.
Joe Mazzara lives in Clinton Township, Michigan with his wife Cindy, and two children, Mark and Kate. He is a freelance writer with a Master’s Degree in Clinical Psychology from Eastern Michigan University. Although he has had several articles published in automotive and music magazines, he is quick to point out that he has not yet quit his day job. A psychologist for the past 23 years, he currently supervises programs for Macomb County Community Mental Health Services.
Joe has always lived in the Detroit area and has had a lifelong love for cars. He has worked on the automotive assembly lines, raced in SCCA Solo Events, and at one time aspired to be an auto body designer. He has owned a Triumph Spitfire, a Camaro, and a Porsche 944, but he has yet to own his first Corvette.
He spends his free time writing, playing acoustic guitar in a local jug band, or cruising the used car lots of Gratiot Avenue in search of his next dream car.
Through my front window, I watched the young family out at the street as they circled around the red Horizon. I had waxed it and cleaned the interior and it didn’t look nearly as bad as it ran.
The husband came up to the door and smiled. He had a kind but dull-witted face, with missing and misshapen teeth. He said they wanted to drive the car. He said he was looking for a car for his wife to drive and they didn’t have much to spend. I started to feel uneasy. Go away, I thought, this isn’t a car for a family.
I tried to dissuade him with my now classic truth in advertising routine. I told him about the bad CV joint and the questionable transmission. He was unshaken. I suggested that it might only be good for another few months, thinking he would take the hint and say "Naw, we need something more reliable." He didn’t.
First the husband drove it. I watched the junker ease out onto our street, then lunge predictably to the left as the transmission shifted into second gear. It disappeared around the corner and eventually reappeared from the opposite direction. As the man exited the car, I fully expected him to throw the keys back to me and say "No thanks, man. This thing is a pile of junk!" Instead, he eased his pregnant wife into the driver’s seat and urged her to take it for a spin around the block. When she returned, she was smiling. This was not a good sign, I thought, they might actually want to buy it.
They did. They came in and sat at our kitchen table to talk business.
The husband did most of the talking. As his face had suggested, he was truly one of God’s humble creatures. He listened intently as I reiterated the major faults of the car he was so interested in buying. He said that he really didn’t know much about cars but one of his friends or relatives was a mechanic. I thought that a closer relationship with a mechanic would be preferable. A live in, perhaps.
The man’s wife was even simpler than he. She had one good eye and another that stared off to the side like a searching beacon. She spoke with a familiar accent born more of intellectual deprivation than ethnic origin. "I like the cow" she said. The more they spoke, the more I felt sorry for them. Innocent to a fault, they could be lambs to the slaughter in the wrong hands. As they chatted, their infant son fiddled with a small plastic toy. I noticed that the boy was missing one or two fingers on his tiny hand.
The measure of suffering this family had to endure made all of my own problems seem insignificant. And yet, they each seemed pleasant and happy in the simplest kind of way. Later, I often wondered if God sent this family to me as a test of my compassion. If so, I failed the test miserably. I sold them the car for the $225 I needed for my race tires. I felt terrible as they drove away. I didn’t cheat them or lie to them, but I probably took the last money they had and gave them a car sure to bring them more sorrow.
I tried to justify my actions with the rationalization that this was probably the only car they could afford and if I hadn’t sold it to them, they would have had no car. I knew immediately, however, what I should have done. I should have given them the car for free and told them to save their money to fix it when it broke. Instead, I traded a golden opportunity to do something good for a lousy set of race tires. It is a moment I would give anything to take back and do over again.
