Chromefest

Another day on the set of The Box, this time in Milton, Mass. Here's Silvie with all of her 70s-era friends on the lawn at Milton Academy. In the movie, Cameron Diaz plays a teacher at a school in Virginia. Milton Academy is supposed to be that school. No scenes today on the campus, though. After signing in here, we were off to Lantern Lane, a residential street nearby where Cameron's supposed to live.

An old friend of mine from graduate school used to teach at Milton Academy. She lived for a time in a big house on campus, surrounded by a huge lawn, so she said, where her black lab, Lucky, liked to romp. The stately building just out of camera range of this shot would seem to be that house. I can certainly picture my black dog having a hell of a good time running around here. But she'll just have to wait for her own movie.

In Which We Travel Back in Time

Last week I got an offer from a Boston casting company to work on the new Cameron Diaz movie, The Box. Actually, they wanted my car, but they offered to pay both of us and said they'd find something for me to do on the set as well. Silvie's been a little jealous about all the movie parts I've been taking, and this was her big break, so I said yes for both of us. Today was the first day of shooting.

The Box is adapted from a short story by Richard Matheson called "Button, Button." It was made into an episode of The Twilight Zone in 1986. The story takes place in 1976. A woman receives a mysterious box with a button on it. If she pushes the button, she comes into a lot of money, but someone she doesn't know will die.

Today's scenes were shot in South Boston. A house on the corner of 4th Street had been comandeered for the shoot; the mildly excited and bewildered owners--Mom, Dad, little boy, little dog Buffy, plus a neighbor--were eating breakfast in the holding area, courtesy of the film crew. Just one of the perks of being kicked out of your own house! I parked Silvie on the curb as instructed, and joined them in holding (the social center of a nearby church) for a cup of strong coffee and an English muffin.

For purposes of the movie, it was supposed to be winter in Virginia. Silvie got fake Virginia plates stuck over her real ones. The house was supposed to be a crime scene. In preparation for the first shot, a light blue and white police car was pulled up in front of the house at a crazy angle, engine running, lights flashing. A big van was similarly pulled up opposite. When the director yelled "Action!" the fake cops would jump out of the vehicles and rush into the house. (I guess this was the result of Cameron Diaz pushing the button.)

The director liked my car and decided to feature her in the shot. I was put at the head of a parade of three cars; we lined up out of camera range, and on cue proceeded slowly down the street and around the corner. Then around the rest of the block and back to the mark, ready for the next take. Ten or twelve takes and the director was satisfied.

The next scene was the police car--driven by a stunt car driver--screeching down the cross street and pulling up at the crazy angle. The wardrobe mistress, impressed by my outfit (all of it pieces which had been hanging in my closet since the seventies), requested that I be in the scene. I was paired with two other women, one pushing a baby carriage with a plastic baby in it. We were carefully positioned (our main function was to block the view of some non-vintage vehicles way up the street) and told to chat. Hard work, but somebody has to do it.

That was it for the outdoor scenes. In between was a lot of standing around, sitting in cars, and helping ourselves to catered food at the church. All the extras were car people, more interested in discussing original equipment and m.p.g. than the movie. Nothing against actors, but it was refreshing.

We wrapped around 4:30, none too soon. It was freezing out. I'd forgotten how cold we were in the seventies. Camel hair coat, panty hose, penny loafers, green lambswool sweater, brown skirt, necklace of wooden beads....I don't dress that way anymore. I was getting hives from all the wool. Driving back with Silvie's excellent heater was lovely. Climbing back into all-cotton socks, sweats, and turtleneck at home was even better. It's fun to visit the bad old days, but I'm glad I don't have to live there anymore.

Silvie Gets a New Coat

For a while I was beginning to think that my Mercedes-Benz 450SL was nothing more than a piece of decorative sculpture in my driveway. Problems with owning an antique sports car were multiplying faster than I could solve them. She didn't pass inspection, so I had some restoration work done on her, which took so long that I turned the plates in, and then it was almost winter, so I decided not to drive her till spring, but then all that sitting rusted the brakes, so I had to have them fixed, and a few other things besides.

All the problems had started because the car wasn't watertight. So after all the work and $$$, I was terrified of any more water getting inside of her. I had some of the seals replaced, but I think the rubber around the windshield needs to be changed as well, and who knows what else. I was losing sleep worrying about her, then dreaming about building garages, carports, and lean-tos when I finally would pass out. My eventual solution was to buy a car cover.

The cover I chose was the Noah by Covercraft. It's the cover of choice in places like L.A. where even people with fancy cars and pricey condos don't necessarily have a place to store a vehicle. It's billed as water-resistant, not waterproof, but the impression I got after reading about 500 customer reviews was that it was as close as I was going to get to waterproof while still having some breathability. (If I wanted to sacrifice breathability, which I did not, I could've stuck with the $14 tarp.)

The covers are custom-made for each vehicle. Mine arrived promptly, and proved easy to slip on and off. Most importantly, it seems to be doing its job. After each drenching downpour, I run out and worriedly check the floorboards, but so far, so good.

Yesterday I took her for a spin. She was clean and beautiful since she'd been carefully covered. The day was sunny and gorgeous, and I wasn't in a hurry. I'd nearly forgotten what a pleasure it is to drive this car. That's why I bought her in the first place, after all...to drive her, not to jones for her. And now I can again, thanks to the Noah.

Silvie Retires

Silvie got her new plates today. She's officially an antique! Insurance is ruinously expensive everywhere in Massachusetts, and twice as high in Springfield as in surrounding towns. With cool weather coming on, and gas prices out of sight, I won't be putting too many miles on a convertible with a V-8 engine. So this was my economical solution, and I hope she doesn't mind too much.

A solution arrived at, I might add, after much research and deliberation. Insuring a car as an antique is a third the cost of regular insurance, but driving privileges are limited. The car can be used in parades, shows, and cruises, driven to and from the repair shop, and test-driven to get ready for a show. But not to transport passengers or goods.

That basically means that the car can't be used for commuting or errands. Otherwise, it's a bit of a gray area. A car that's not winterized has to be driven a bit on a regular basis or lots of things will start to go very wrong. (Don't ask me how I know that.) So a twice-weekly spin could be called "test-driving." And stopping at Starbucks for a coffee on the way home from an event, or even for a gallon of milk, should be allowed.

Another option--even cheaper than antique insurance, is collector car insurance. I obtained a quote for it online, and got prematurely excited. It was only a third of the cost of antique insurance. Car owners can deal directly with these collector car companies, if they don't want to use an independent agent, so I decided to call myself. No voice mail--just a rather snooty-sounding lady picking up the phone. One of the first things she asked me was if I had another car registered in my name.

No, I said. Well then, we can't insure you, she replied. You are not allowed to drive your collector car to work or to the store. But, I answered, I have the use of another car, except it's not registered to me. I suppose, though, that I could have it put in my name, if that's what it would take.

Even then we wouldn't insure you, said Snooty. Not now that I know your situation. What if the real owner wanted to drive it? Then you'd be tempted to drive your collector car.

I was beginning to realize that becoming a client of this company was like getting into a country club, except that even country clubs are not like country clubs any more. I thanked Snooty for her time and hung up. And just as well. Turns out her next question would've been, do you have a locked garage in which to keep your collector car? And I don't.

So I opted to go the antique route, and we'll see what happens. It might turn out to be another adventure. I am a card-carrying member of the Veteran Motor Car Club of America, and who knows? Maybe next spring we'll start making some new friends our own age.

First Car, Last Car

I wonder what, in earlier ages, took the special place in the heart now held, for Americans at least, by their first car. Many of my generation fell in love with a bad-ass red paint job, a pair of fins, or a backseat big enough to neck in. The fact that the muffler was falling off or the fenders eaten away with rust did nothing to spoil the illusion of perfection. Incidents involving unreliable gas gauges, fumes, flats, and failing brakes are recounted with fond humor. Many middle-aged men still have a '65 Corvette or MG on blocks in a garage somewhere because they can't bear to get rid of that first love.

I had such a car...except that I was 53 when I bought it. Technically, it wasn't my first car. But it was the first one I ever picked out all by myself. And, since it was my first, and I felt I had the right to be impulsive, when other people warned me it was impractical I just said la la la la la I'm not listening.

I've been on the road with Silvie for five years now, and what a road it's been. Sometimes such an inviting highway that I couldn't resist putting pedal to the metal--and I've got the speeding tickets and consequent steps on my insurance to prove it. Sometimes a very rocky road, when I thought hard about rolling her through my double front doors and turning her into a couch. But I've never wanted to give her up.

John from Taylor Auto called yesterday to tell me that she was ready to be sprung from his shop, where she'd been languishing for some time. She had needed some brake work, among other things, and last I heard, they were waiting for a part from Germany, or maybe making one? Anyway, the part is installed and she's ready to roll again.

Too bad it's almost fall already. I don't think I'll be taking the hardtop off this year. So there'll be no cruising around in the convertible with Taz in the passenger seat, for this season at least. That gives me nine months to teach her how to behave in a car. But next spring--Springfield, watch out. It'll be that crazy lady from Salem Street with the little black dog, all over town.

Silvie's back

Five years ago, I was driving a van with a couple of hundred thousand miles on it, and starting for the first time in my life to pay attention to makes and models. I'd had a driver's license since age 16, a car of my own since age 21, but I'd never actually picked out a single one of my own automobiles. Now for the first time I was coming up on the time I'd have to make a car decision. At some point, the van was going to stop running; I'd find out it needed a new transmission or a new engine or a new something else not worth putting into it, and then I'd have to act quickly. I didn't know a Cadillac from a Kia at that point....nor did I care. All cars looked basically alike to me, or at least equally uninteresting.

Till one night when I pulled up into the parking lot of Spag's next to a muscular little beauty. I walked all around it, trying to figure out what kind of car it was. A Toyota MR2 Spyder, turned out.

"Now that's a car I like," I said to my kids. Not that I could afford it--but at least I liked it.

"But Mom," one of them replied. "That car doesn't even have a back seat. It doesn't fit your lifestyle."

A lightbulb went off in my brain. "Well, if this is the kind of car I like....and it doesn't fit my lifestyle....maybe I should change my lifestyle."

And I did. By summer, I had bought a sports car I liked even better than the Spyder: a 1974 Mercedes-Benz 450SL hardtop. I christened her Silvana, after Silvana Gravini, a smart, hip, and talented woman of my acquaintance, who looked like Botticelli's Venus, and whose name was--to me--the loveliest of her many enviable attributes.

No more taking the trash to the dump. Ali inherited the van and that chore right along with it. No more carting the drums around...or the bikes. No more chauffering the boys and all their friends. No room!

Instead, I popped the top down and cruised to Ogunquit the first weekend I got her. The 65-mile-each-way commute to Intel became a long, pleasurable joyride. People honked and waved at me (well, at her), screeched to a halt to give us the right of way, inquired as to her pedigree at red lights. Or tried to buy her. Fellow employees started to chat me up. My car pool buddy, Robert Marco, who had professed to dislike convertibles, took to calling her "the Orgasmatron."

For a couple of years, it was just gas and go. Then she started to show her age. By last year, she needed to be hospitalized for a while. I took the plates off of her when it became apparent that getting parts was going to take some time, and that top-down weather would be almost over by the time she was sprung from Daigle's Steer-o-Master. At that point, I was living downtown, working from home, and had access to another car. It just didn't make sense to drive her in the winter and risk a lot of salt damage.

So she spent the winter huddled under a tarp. With no plates, she couldn't be driven around the block once a week, and I didn't start her up often enough to keep the battery charged. Convertibles began appearing as the weather turned nice, and I began to worry about what would be involved in getting her back on the road again.

Enter George Vazquez, neighbor and friend. We were having coffee on his back porch the other morning, and I happened to mention that Silvie was going plateless these days. He was shocked. "You have to get her back on the road," he insisted. Her battery's dead, I told him. Well, you need a battery charger, he replied. I have a battery charger, I told him. I'm just too afraid of electricity to use it.

Five minutes later, we were in my driveway. I got the battery charger; he pulled off the tarp and popped the hood. While the battery charged, George checked the belts, lights, horn, air filter, fluids, and made a list of things that needed to be tweaked or changed. Then he started her up. She smoked and sputtered at first, but after twenty minutes, the exhaust was running clean, and her beautiful throaty purr was back.

"I'm a mechanic, you know, " George told me. "I don't want you to think I don't know what I'm doing."

"Get out of here!" I said. "You're a paralegal and a politician."

"But I'm a Puerto Rican," George said. "All Puerto Ricans are mechanics. That's all we did, growing up, was tinker with cars. Old cars. Nobody had money to pay for a service station. So we can fix anything."

We made a plan for servicing her, and garaging her, too. George promised to take me to see a friend of his who was an insurance agent. I promised to start her up every day and let her run for a few minutes.

So I'm a happy girl again. George is running for State Rep this year, and so I asked him what favors he was going to request as payback. Did I have to be his campaign manager or something? He just laughed and said, no, he was only being neighborly. But I see a vision of myself come November, shivering at an intersection, holding up a sign that says, George Vazquez for State Rep.