The Accidental Gentrifist: Profiles in... well, Profiles

Tim's mom worked in a bar that catered to an older crowd, tucked under one of the handful of bridges leading to the island where we grew up, and one of her patrons pretty much set the gold standard for 'camouflage': he drove a cab. At 2:30 in the morning, the likelihood he'd get pulled over was practically nil.

It's not that we were heavy drinkers exactly, not at 16 or 17. And now that we've all lost friends and family to drunk-driving assholes, our admiration for the tanked cabby is suddenly colored by the, um, sobering reality of looking up to someone because he was nearly invisible to the idling police as he wove home with the meter off and nine rusty nails working their way through his swollen and cirrhotic liver.

Our respect for his camouflage stemmed form the fact that we, as teenagers, we were constantly getting pulled over. Really, it was almost nightly. Not because we were poor drivers—but because we usually drove vehicles that advertised exactly what we were—two kids more interested in fake I.D.s and titties and hot rods than the 10 and 2 of our respective civic impact. To quote the poetry oft-spewed by Tim's Molson Gold-swilling step-dad, we were "Young, dumb, and full of come."

I do not, for the record, dispute this. Back then the volume of semen that would come from my body accidentally more than rivals what I can today conjure intentionally. But, on the point of cars, I haven't turned a blind eye. Even if youthful and brimming with pre-ejaculate, I resolved to not remain numb to the message projected by the cage around me.

Here, for your enjoyment, is a retrospective of good and poor camouflage, leading up to the Saab costume:

My first car: A 1986 1985 Toyota Camry LE. Sunroof and cruise control. Technically, it belonged to my mom (pictured). This was the car I took my driver's test in. For me and Tim, this was the silver standard of 'camouflage', über-anonymous. Basically it looked like every other responsible car on the road. I got pulled over exactly one time—because I was driving 44 miles over the speed limit while crossing three city lines. But I didn't get a ticket. Thanks Toyota!

(These days, the mid-80's camoflage value is negligible. Back in 1994, it was bullet-proof. Today, the image is more likely to suggest a fifth generation hand-me-down to a witless blond daughter steering through East Austin in search of stepped-on ecstasy, or, alternatively, rust-spotted and probably purchased collectively via mechanic's lien by a small horde of minorities intent on committing murder, robbery or both.)

Ah, my second car: 1979 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. Technically my dad's. This car was, along with 90's model Honda Accords, consistently in the top two places for 'Most Stolen Car in America.' Despite that if you knew how doggy the 260c.i. V-8 was, you wouldn't jack it if it were GTA III and a cop had just witnessed you pummeling a leaking hooker to get your money back.

It was, however, uncannily popular with Mexican bystanders. I'm not kidding. Every single time I drove this beast over the bridge into Oakland, I was constantly accosted by Hispanic motorists making the 'crank down your window' motion, only to invariably ask, "¿Se vende?"

"Aye, lo siento. Yo no lo vende. Mi mamá cree que es un clásico."

Although there was some pride of ownership, knowing that half of East Oakland wanted my ride. But, for the record, in the four years I drove it I was pulled over 3,417 times.

Verdict: Bad camouflage.

(Note the license plate. I'm not sure, but I think my parents bought the car from one of those guys who tells everybody he's a priest, but really he got one of those free certificates from Universal Life Church.)

The third car, the first one I actually bought: 1967 Chevy II Nova Wagon. Still the best car I ever owned. I still have dreams about it. Which is sad, I know, but sadder still that I let it go.

Purchased for $2,250 from a gay Dutch couple, I couldn't even drive to the grocery store without five guys trying to buy it. It was rare (only about 2,200 came out of the Fremont, California GM plant), it had a functional power back window, and, with a straight-6, was pretty f'n economical. Especially when regular was 89¢ a gallon.

On the down side, it was primer-gray for most of my ownership, and this fact, I believe, was the main reason I was pulled over at least once a week. (Once, I was pulled over on Red River leaving Kinko's. I told the cop I was making extra-large copies for an art project. He politely asked to see the 3' x 5' poster I had just finished running off. So I showed him:

It was a 1920's woodcut by Franz Masereel titled "Sex Murder", and it hung over my bed for the next two years. This is a fact, I'm only just now realizing, I probably should have shared with my therapist, back when I could afford him.)

Anyway—onward!

Fourth car: 1956 Oldsmobile 4-Door Hardtop Rocket 88. Never ran while I owned it. Shame. Shame too I didn't take more pictures, as the only one (above) hardly does justice to the dusty luxury that was that car (even though it had an Earl Scheib paint job and it had squatted outside the Heinz Ketchup plant in Tracy, California for twenty-two years and stank to High Hell of scorched tomatoes).

Camouflage Factor: Unknown. But the smell of burnt tomatoes would have been an interesting element to test against the overlapping webs of Austin police, the Sheriff's department, the county constables, and of course the DPS.

Fifth automobile, first truck: 1968 Ford F-100 Long Bed. Oh yeah, baby. Can't live in Texas and not have no truck.

First, driving this pickup, I got pulled over a lot less often. Maybe that's just Texas. But then, after I painted it (image on right), I only got pulled over one time. And that's because I had an expired inspection decal as I cavalierly rolled through a stop sign near my house, in a school zone, about 20 feet from a motorcycle cop with a radar gun.

Another ride I regret letting go. I never really got into the Chevy vs. Ford thing. But that bitch was a damn solid ride. And, of American-made rivalries real and imagined, I should know the score.

See? Lookee here:

Sixth auto, second truck: 1970 Chevrolet C10 Pickup. This thing is obnoxiously loud and really pretty fast until it hits its lowish top end. Actually, it's geared more like a Camaro than a pickup. The penultimate owner was a high schooler, and I freely admit I often drive it like one. And yet, in the 14 or so months I've had it, I have never, ever gotten pulled over.

Camouflage Factor: Excellent, at least in East Austin. Something about 'Chevy truck' must say 'harmless Caucasian'.

Although, to be fair, I did do the one thing that could make the truck (and its operator) strike one as even whiter: ...I affixed a sticker for Barack Obama.