The Cadillac

For a long time, we stood there, shielding our eyes from the glare of the hood.

My family pulled up to the church on a clear but humid July morning and saw, parked along the side of the building, a 1979 Cadillac Coupe de Ville. Its gold hood and fenders reflected the summer sun, its massive windshield gleamed like a prism, and the wavy, heat-bent light arched above its golden top like the sign of a covenant. When my father ratcheted our car into park and turned off the engine, we all sat silently for a few long seconds. “Where did that come from?“ My mother asked. Without taking his eyes off the Cadillac, my father shrugged his shoulders like a lazy French waiter.

No one mentioned the car during church, but I noticed furtive glances toward the front door. Others had seen the block of opulence and wondered about its owner. While the “Amen” of the benediction was still ringing, most men and a few ladies rose quickly and went to the front door to have an unhindered view of the Cadillac and who would drive it away. My family waited longer than I wanted to. Eventually, our hunger overcame our curiosity, and we left.

Later that day, a friend of my mother called to give her a full report. She was a Sunday school teacher and had lingered after church to sweep cookie crumbs from the table and organize the bookcase—a thinly veiled excuse to wait long enough to see who claimed the Cadillac. She was the last to leave and walked out with the pastor and his wife, watched them walk to the car, take an appreciative look, and unlock the sparkling doors. Looking up, he waved to my mother's friend as he pulled away.

Pastors love Cadillacs. It is an anointed make—the official car of many Protestant denominations. Though many pastors disagree on baptism or the doctrine of election, it seems they agree on Cadillacs. But I was 17 and made fun of things I didn’t understand, so I laughed at the reverend and his car.

Then, I pulled out onto the fresh tarmac as my foot smoothly pushed the accelerator to the floor.

During the first week of August, the state highway administration began grinding away the worn gray asphalt running parallel to the church to prepare the road for repaving. Billows of powdered asphalt and dust hung heavily over the work and settled on anything nearby at the end of the day.

For weeks, dust clung to the Cadillac, dulling its glow. A few times, I suggested to the pastor that I clean his car. He only smiled.

On a Friday evening toward the end of the month, the trucks moved away, and the gritty cloud of dust went north with them. I was on the front porch watching the flickering street lights when the phone rang. My mother answered it. The pastor was calling to ask if I would wash the Cadillac.

The next morning, I drove my car to his house, leaving my keys with him in case he needed a ride. He handed me the leather fob and the keys dangling from the key ring. The keys seemed to vibrate gently in the palm of my hand as I walked down the front steps and onto the warming white sidewalk.

For a moment, I just stood facing the driver's side door. My eyes walked along its length. I turned my head to take it in. Grabbing the door handle, I swung the massive door open in a smooth arc. I slid onto the tan leather bench seat and gripped the steering wheel with my left hand. My right slid the key to the ignition on the steering column and turned. The Cadillac throbbed to life, idling like a sleeping lion. I grabbed the shifter on the steering column and lowered it into drive, then pulled away from the curb and toward the stop sign at the end of the street.

The golden hood reached so far in front of me that I involuntarily leaned forward to get a better view of the road as I drove slowly to the car wash a few miles away.

The quiet pulse of the Cadillac’s hulking V8 and the flexing torque was something I had never experienced. This car dripped with excess and bathed me in Detroit joy. Something like scales fell from my eyes between the church and the car wash. I was converted.

I rolled down the windows and rested my elbow on the door frame, stretching my forearm toward the side mirror. I drove slowly, waiting for other drivers to watch me roll by and into the parking lot of the car wash.

I pulled into the wash bay, soaped the hood and front fenders, moved up the windshield over the vinyl top, and back down to the trunk. Using steel wool, I scrubbed the white walls and the hubcaps. I took my time washing what tail fins still clung to a 1979 Cadillac. After an hour and a half, the car shone like the Golden Calf.

I started the Cadillac and paused. The engine shook under its lanky hood. I gently blipped the throttle to feel the car twist on its frame. Putting it into drive, I rolled slowly across the lot toward the new road shimmering in the sun.

Then, I pulled out onto the fresh tarmac as my foot smoothly pushed the accelerator to the floor.

The tail of the Coupe de Ville swung sideways on the slippery asphalt. The back end was loose, and the white walls spun faster, the blurring tires singing as white smoke trailed behind the car. I eased off the gas, and the tires grabbed traction as the car smoothly accelerated up the new highway.

I drove back to the pastor's house, grinning until my cheeks hurt. As I pulled into his driveway, he walked out the door to meet me. Swinging the driver's door open, I reluctantly slid out and handed him his keys.

“Any problems?“ He said.

“No, none. It’s a nice car,” I said as I stood back to watch the gold paint shimmer in the sun. We both saw it at the same time.

“What’s that, “he asked, seeing a spray of tar that began behind the wheel and moved up the back fender toward the rear bumper. It was a web of tire and asphalt that looked like a geyser on the gold paint.

“Hmmm,” I said. I tried to look at anything but the mark.

“It looks like burned rubber,” the pastor said quietly, looking over his glasses.

“Hmmm,” I said again.

For a long time, we stood there, shielding our eyes from the glare of the hood.

“Has a lot of power—the car. My wife hates it when I floor it. She tells me it's childish. People might get the wrong idea.“ He paused, then said, “And it’s always a lot of work wiping off the tar.“ He cut his eyes at me. “I still have a can of tar remover in the shed. I’ll go get it,” he said as he walked toward the backyard.

He came back to the car with the can and a clean rag. I got right to work, and I was smiling.