There’s a rapper that goes by the moniker P Diddy. His actual name is Sean Combs. His rapper name used to be Puff Daddy, or Puffy, but I guess he felt the need for something more hippy-dippy. When his son, Justin, turned 16, Diddy threw him a birthday party at one of New York’s trendiest clubs. Diddy also gave Justin some presents, including a $360,000 Mercedes Benz Maybach 57 and $10,000 cash to spend around town. That was a year ago. This year, Justin is 17 and made the high school honor roll. As a reward, Diddy gave Justin another car: the $390,000 limousine version of the same luxury vehicle. Diddy explained that his son would probably only use the limo for special occasions, such as a first date. The rest of the time he would drive the cheaper $360,000 Maybach. He would do this, Diddy said, because “like all my kids, he prefers the simpler things than the expensive things. Simple tastes.”
He said that with no suggestion of irony.
When questioned about the advisability of giving a teen such expensive gifts, Diddy said it was a racist question. "You don't ask white people what they buy their kids, and they buy 'em Porsches and convertible Bentleys, and it ain't no question.”
So true, P. My neighborhood is chock full of Porsches driven by teenagers. And I can’t cross the street without dodging pimped out Bentleys careening through the ‘hood. Often I will hear a neighbor exclaim, “Those damn kids and their Bentley’s!”
I recall my own first vehicle. I was seventeen with a hundred dollars burning a hole in my pocket, and I asked my dad to drive me to a few used car lots in Richmond so I could buy a car. Dad pointed out that a hundred dollars wouldn’t buy much of a car, but I was determined and so off we went to the big city.
We wound up at a small car lot on Broad Street. There was a small, green, somewhat odd-looking 1958 Fiat sedan on the lot with a posted price of $399. I test drove the car a few blocks up Broad Street. It didn’t have much pep starting out, but after it picked up a little speed it seemed to gain strength and accelerated harder. I wanted it.
Dad, always a haggler about price, offered the salesman $299. The salesman said, “You can have it for $299 if you take it today.” I paid the man my hundred dollars, and dad financed the remaining $199. He had to take out a loan because two hundred dollars was more money than he could lay hands on.
When I got the strange, little foreign-made car back home, my family wanted a trip around the block. So my mom, my dad, my brother, and I stuffed ourselves into the small car. I was parked behind my dad’s Buick, so I had to back up. The gearshift was on the column and looked like a standard 3-speed. I put the shift lever into what should have been reverse and as I gently let out the clutch, the Fiat nudged forward. I put the shift lever into neutral, then firmly into reverse again and slowly let out the clutch. And again, the Fiat nudged forward. Dad saw what was happening and asked me, “How did you back it out of the car lot?”
“I couldn’t find reverse,” I confessed, “so I just pushed in the clutch and let it roll backward into the street.”
Dad swore, “Damn! We just bought a car with no reverse!”
The owner’s manual was in the glove compartment, and a quick study revealed that the Fiat had a 4-speed gearbox. What I thought was reverse was actually first gear. What I had been using for first gear was really second gear, and that explained why it had no pep until it gained a little speed: I had been starting out in second gear from every red light.
The Fiat was a nice, small, go-anywhere car. It had 4 doors, and the front doors were “suicide doors” – hinged at the back. My elderly grandmother loved those doors because it made the car so easy to get in and out of.
I took it off-road to go fishing and dip-netting, and it was like driving a 4WD vehicle. It would go anywhere.
I have fond memories of that little Fiat. It took me to classes every day of my first year of college. I remember the night I sold it to a soldier stationed at nearby Fort Lee, and I remember watching him drive away with the little car. I recall thinking, “I’m going to miss that car.”
Seventeen year old Justin now owns two of the world’s most expensive luxury cars. I’m sure he’ll enjoy them. But I doubt he’ll drive them through meadows and down to a riverbank to go dip-netting, or haul bags of herring back home to clean and salt away into a 5 gallon crock. I doubt he’ll bounce his Mercedes away from the curb on a snowy street. He’ll never have to pull the generator off and disassemble it on his kitchen counter-top, nor will he gain the satisfaction of fixing it with his own hands and his own skills.
If Justin is fortunate, his $390,000 Mercedes may leave him with as many fond memories as my three hundred dollar Fiat left me with.
<< 1958 Fiat 1100, like my first car, except my Fiat was green.
Note the location of the front door handle. The front doors were hinged at the rear. They were called “suicide doors”, a name derived from the possible consequence of opening the door at highway speed.
