The Zone

So, even in the middle of a heavy snowfall, we head out to look at another car, a 1968 Plymouth GTX listed in the paper for $200. “This looks like a great find!” Ray says, shielding his face from the snow. The car has flashy mag wheels and chrome-plated valve covers under the hood. As for the body? It’s completely buried under a thick blanket of snow. The engine has timing issues. When the owner starts it, flames shoot out of the carburetor. That probably should have been our cue to walk away. But we’re not the walk-away type. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. We make a few quick adjustments and, to our surprise, the car starts to run smoothly. But the storm is getting worse. The wind howls. Snow slashes our faces. We’re freezing. And none of us brought gloves. “Let’s take it for a ride,” we say. The owner shrugs. “Well, there’s just one problem. No forward gear.” The car only drives in reverse. We laugh, shake our heads, and start walking back to our cars. Then the owner calls out, “How about fifty bucks?” We stop. Look at each other. The parts alone are worth more than that. So we pay him $50 and form a three-car caravan me driving the GTX in reverse, for seven miles, through a snowstorm, all the way home. If a deal sounds too good to be true it is. There’s nearly a foot of snow on the roads. Jimmy thinks he can fix the car, but first, we have to survive the drive back to my house. It’s snowing harder now. Visibility is terrible. No other drivers are out. No one else is this stupid. The GTX is seven miles away from my driveway. The roads are buried, the wind is howling, and I’m steering backward using only back roads. Ever try driving in reverse for more than a few yards? It’s hard. It’s neck-breaking. It’s dangerous. And it’s definitely not something you do in a snowstorm. But I do it anyway. Paul C and Jimmy are in their cars one in front of me, one behind. Three cars. One driving in reverse. All crawling through a record-setting snowstorm. The tires spin and skid, trying to grip the icy road but it’s useless. The GTX is front-heavy, thanks to the engine, but it’s rear-wheel drive. In the snow, it fishtails like a striped bass on a hook. We’re getting nowhere. No traction. And now we’re approaching a steep hill. The snow gets worse. Then, out of nowhere, a massive tow truck appears snowplow mounted on the front, rumbling down the road like a tank through a blizzard. The storm is brutal now. We wave frantically and manage to flag the driver down. At first, he hesitates. But one look at us soaked, shivering, stranded and he sees how desperate we are. Truth is, we might have frozen to death out there. The storm howls louder. Visibility drops. With a deafening roar, the plow rolls forward and engulfs the GTX’s front end. It pushes us inch by inch up the hill. A car with no forward gears. In a blizzard. Inside a snowplow. At the top of that treacherous hill, the snowplow reverses, releases the car with me still in the driver’s seat and the driver shakes his head, wishes us luck, and returns to clearing the roads. My neck, back, and right arm throb in agony from driving in reverse for miles. The snow is deeper now, but we’re finally near the Bi-State Shopping Center. No fear. But we can’t make it to my house. The GTX sways dangerously across the snow-covered roads. My eyes blur from fatigue. My hands are frozen. My nerves feel like razor wire tight, frayed, and ready to snap. We have no choice. We pull into the deserted shopping center parking lot and park the car. I climb out, aching and numb, and walk the rest of the way home. All I want is bed. I tell myself, who’s going to care about a car stranded in a blizzard? I’m wrong. Someone cares. Around midnight, Patrolman John Hathaway spots the lone car while making his rounds. The lot is empty, the stores are closed, and the weather is brutal. Something doesn’t sit right. Using his lockout tool, he opens the passenger side door and checks the registration. It’s taped to the back of the inspection sticker. But the title hasn’t transferred yet. As far as the system is concerned, the car still belongs to Frank Pizzarelli of Westwood seven miles away. So why is his car sitting in a blizzard, abandoned in a closed shopping center? Things go from bad to worse. At 3 a.m., Officer Hathaway rings our doorbell. Everyone wakes up, startled. My father opens the door. Snow and wind rush into the house. His mind races. Did someone crash? Is someone hurt? Josephine is cranky, snappish, and impatient. Her three toad-like daughter’s whine about losing their beauty sleep. My sister Laura stands in the hallway wide-eyed, confused, and clearly annoyed. Things get worse. The officer asks if anyone in the house owns a Plymouth GTX parked illegally in the Bi-State Shopping Center lot. My father frowns. “Not mine,” he says, then yells upstairs. “Get down here!” Still groggy, I stumble down the stairs, half-asleep. “It’s mine,” I say. “I just bought it six hours ago.” The officer says the car is parked illegally and must be moved blizzard or not. My father throws up his hand, disgusted, as if to say, You’re on your own. The cop drives me back to the lot and orders me to move the car. That’s when I explain: it has no forward gear. I drove it there in reverse. Through a snowstorm. With no insurance. And no registered title.