Still life with Volkswagens

Ten. I Beg Your Pardon, I Never Promised You a Volkswagen

The noise of twin carburettors and stinger exhausts screams across the sky. There is a curl of blue smoke, the smell of multigrade and four star and teen spirit, the sound of radials on loose gravel, a squeal of overheated brake pads. Here they come, a procession, a danse macabre, something stately and dangerous, new-fangled yet elemental. They come in different styles and colours, in different specifications, with or without optional extras. They suit different personalities, satisfy different needs, are the products of different obsessions, but in the end, one size fits all.

Here they come, the heroes and the bad guys, the lovers and killers, the good, the bad, the pranksters and fugitives and collectors, the winners and posers, the hippies and cops, the postmen, the surfers, the ravers; all driving Volkswagen Beetles, always crashing in the same car. Everyone has a Volkswagen story. Everyone is a driver or a passenger.

Here are some Disney executives at the boardroom table having a brainstorming session, some time in the late sixties. “Hey it’s freaky out there. Everybody’s taking drugs, marching on the Pentagon burning their draft cards, what we need is some mawkish sentimental crap for the family audience. And sure, we’ve made plenty of mawkish sentimental crap about wildlife and children, but hey, let’s face it fellers, the times they are a changing. How about this for a concept? Let’s make some mawkish sentimental crap about an anthropomorphic Volkswagen!!!!! Far out or what?”

In fact they get through about thirty different Herbies in the making of The Love Bug and the true Beetle obsessive will spot that the cars used vary from 1966 through to 1969 models. These days, only one Herbie stands in the Volkswagen museum at Wolfsburg, with the number 53 on its doors and bonnet, and the legend ‘Gross in Fahrt’ painted along its sides. But, of course, since the car has to be seen to race and beat Corvettes and Ferraris, most of the stunt cars have to use a Porsche engine. But that’s okay, that’s authentic enough, that’s just the nature of film, that’s just showbiz.

Here is Ralph Nader, pioneer of consumer safety, the man who nixed the Chevrolet Corvair, and he isn’t at all happy about this Bug mania that’s sweeping the country. They’re strange and foreign and popular as Hell and it sure wouldn’t do his profile any harm if he could prove they were rolling Germanic death traps. So he looks at them and drives them and takes them apart and crashes them, and in the end all he can find to complain about is the fact that in the event of a serious collision, the petrol cap cover might, you know, fly off and hurt somebody.

Here is Ivan Hirst, the man who brought the Wolfsburg factory back to life after the allied conquest of Germany, the man who more than anyone else was responsible for the postwar rebirth of the Volkswagen Beetle. It is 1989 and he is living in the village of Marsden in West Yorkshire, a Volkswagen Golf GTi in his garage, and a neighbour asks him is it true he used to work for Volkswagen.

“Well actually,” he says, “Volkswagen rather used to work for me.”

Here is Peter Weir in the Australian Outback filming The Cars That Ate Paris, using a Volkswagen Beetle as the ‘monster’. Spikes jut out from every panel of the car and are supposed to look scary and lethal. In fact they look like they’re made from thinnish cardboard.

Here is Woody Alien with Sleeper, where a Volkswagen Beetle that hasn’t been used for centuries still starts first time. And serious students of Alien will note that when Susan Anspach leaves him in Play it Again, Sam she too drives away in a Beetle.

Here is Philip K. Dick in July 1964, driving a Volkswagen Bug; Philip K. Dick, a man with a taste for Tri-Chevvies and Jags. Here he is, paranoid and speeding, seeing angels and devils, crazy as a hoot-owl in the opinion of his girlfriend, fearing he is being persecuted by the CIA and the FBI as well as by some nameless neo-Nazi organisation. He powers the Bug into a corner, completely misjudges its capacity for understeer, and he flips the car over. He has to wear a body cast and has his arm in a sling for the next two months. Even the Volkswagens are against him.

Here is Liberace making a grand entrance in his new Las Vegas show. He is driven on stage in a mirrored Rolls-Royce, gets out, displays himself to the audience, lets them thrill to the sight of his latest outfit which consists of a cape of pink feathers. The Rolls-Royce departs. He removes the cape to reveal the drag underneath and just for a moment he looks as though he has nowhere to put the cape; at which point a mirrored, open-topped 1971 Volkswagen Beetle with a Rolls-Royce grille, double headlights and uniformed chauffeur drives onto the stage. Liberace tosses the feathered cape into the back of the Volkswagen and the chauffeur drives it away again.

Here, on some New England campus in the early 1960^s, are a whole bunch of young students engaged in the sport of ‘jamming’, in which they attempt to cram as many people as possible into a Beetle. Bodies press together, hands, faces and erogenous zones are brought into unlikely and intimate contact. It just wouldn’t be the same in a Cadillac.

Here are the Beastie Boys, white rap group and general funsters wearing VW logo badges on chains round their necks like pieces of jewellery. And not long after a few media appearances, it’s impossible to leave any Volkswagen on any street in England without fearing that the badge will have been ripped off by the time you get back.

Here are the guys at Doyle Dane Bernbach, the advertising agency that’s landed the account for Volkswagen in America. Thing is, some of these guys are Jewish, and naturally they have a few qualms. Hey, they say, Adolf Hitler was responsible for the Volkswagen. Adolf Hitler killed six million Jews. I’m a Jew. So is it ethical for me to help sell the Volkswagen? Big decision.

With the integrity for which advertising agencies are famous, they decide it is ethical and they go on to create one of the most respected and successful and talked about advertising campaigns there’s ever been. The campaign doesn’t mention the war, doesn’t mention Adolf Hitler, scarcely even mentions the fact that the car is German; but they sure feel better for having had the qualms.

And here are the factories in Nigeria and South Africa, in New Zealand and Belgium and Singapore, in Australia and Portugal and Yugoslavia and Brazil; all closed now. Only Mexico still makes them. Mexico, a country where the Beetle is known as the Navel, because everybody’s got one. Not quite true in the case of the car; demand far exceeds supply.

And where are they going, all these fellow travellers? What’s the destination? Why, they’re heading for the vanishing point, following the yellow brick road towards the darkness at the edge of town. Are you there Dean Moriarty?

And here am I, writing this novel in a room full of Volkswagen books and Volkswagen clippings and Volkswagen models and Volkswagen memorabilia. I could pretend it’s all just research material, but who would believe me? Here I am skimming through biographies and running through indexes, looking desperately for material. Did the Yorkshire Ripper drive a Beetle? Did Jeffrey Dahmer? And if they did then that’s great, that’s another chapter I can write. Or is there something from my own life, some anecdote or coincidence that I might have forgotten about? Did Glint Eastwood drive a Beetle? Did Billy Connolly? Did Eddie Van Halen? Did John Paul Getty II? Well yes, as a matter of fact they all did, but what exactly can I do with that?

And sometimes I ask myself ‘Why a Beetle?’ and sometimes all the stuff that the Ferrous Kid says to Barry back in the first chapter about blankness and ubiquity seems like reason enough, and other times it doesn’t. Sometimes I think I might have chosen some other familiar, cultish, man-made object. Why not the Luger or the Zippo Lighter or the Fender Strat? But that’s another story, another obsession, another novel.

♦

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” says Barry Osgathorpe. “I can’t believe I’m sitting in a 747 about to fly to Los Angeles with a woman I hardly know.”

“You know me,” says Renata Caswell. “And you’ll get to know me even better now that I’m your ghost writer.”

“I don’t know that I need a ghost writer.”

“Yes you do, Barry. You have a story to tell. I want to hear it and I want to write it down for you.”

Barry has never flown before. It is all very strange and yet surprisingly mundane. The interior of the plane is so cheap and plastic, the muzak so dreadful. His fellow passengers look so ordinary and they’re taking this all so easily in their stride. None of them seems to be experiencing the same blend of excitement and uneasiness that he is.

“But why do I have to tell it you in America?” he asks.

“Because Barry, dear heart, having just been central in a national scandal involving an ex-Member of Parliament, a television weathergirl, neo-Nazis, New Age culture and exploding Volkswagens, it makes a lot of sense to get away for a while. A lot of very unsavoury hack journalists will be after you if you stay home. I’m here to protect you. Besides, you signed an exclusive contract with my newspaper, didn’t you?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“It was a good idea. It still is.”

“But you’ve got the story already. Why do you need me?”

“You’re the story. You’re the human angle.”

“Am I really?”

The prospect doesn’t make him happy. He feels a ripple of tension building up inside him, and he’s not sure whether it’s fear of flying or fear of being a human angle.

“Besides,” says Renata, “you’ll like America.”

And yes, he thinks he believes her. He thinks he probably will enjoy the friendly people, the open roads, the big skies, the food. At least he thinks he will. At least he hopes he will. He is no longer sure what does and doesn’t give him pleasure. Somewhere back there, like Davey, he fears he may have lost the plot.

“So let me get this straight,” he says, “were you only ever involved with Phelan so that you could get a story?”

“Of course.”

“But you slept with him and everything.”

“I didn’t sleep exactly. I did what I had to do to get a story.”

“That’s dedication, or something,” says Barry. “So does that mean you’re not a neo-Nazi?”

“Come on Barry. Surely you can see that I’ve got old — fashioned liberal written all over me.”

He looks at her. He isn’t at all sure what’s written on her. She feels the need to assert her credentials again.

“You know me,” she insists.

“I know sod all.”

“What don’t you know?”

“Well, for a start, where was Carlton Bax’s locked room?”

“There was no locked room, Barry,” she says with exaggerated patience. That was the point. Quite a Zen thing, really, Barry. I thought you might have appreciated that. The locked room was in the mind of the beholder. Carlton Bax knew that certain people wanted to get their hands on his prize exhibit and they believed, because Bax had made them believe, that the Hitler Volkswagen must be in the locked room. Therefore they were searching for that room, searching for something that didn’t exist. It was a good scam. Meanwhile the Beetle in question was sitting quite happily in Mrs Lederer’s bedroom. He gave it her ostensibly as a present, but in fact for safe keeping. The last place anyone would think of looking. Not even Marilyn knew it was there.”

He prefers not to think about Marilyn. It only brings him pain. In fact, when he gets right down to it, he realises that she has never really brought him anything else. He tries-not to think about her and Carlton Bax, not to dwell on the fact that they’re probably together right now, probably in a suite in some swanky hotel, between the sheets, having a long celebratory sex session, all hot mouths and swelling parts. He feels ill, and it definitely isn’t fear of flying. Like she said, sex is a funny business.

“And what about Butcher?” he asks. “Did he really rape you?”

“Ah well, Butcher is an interesting case. Right from the beginning I knew there was something different about him, but I wasn’t sure what. Eventually I worked it out. The difference is, he’s gay. Phelan sent a gay boy to do a man’s job, and Butcher didn’t want any part of it. He set me free, told me to make myself scarce, then he and the rest of his gang went off to the Gathering of the Tribes. That was fine by me. Left alone, knowing that Phelan was away too, I was able to go back to the bunker and release Carlton Bax and Marilyn, and then we went to Cheryl Bronte and told her the whole story. It took a while, but she finally believed us. Then we piled into her car and headed for the Gathering of the Tribes to exact our retribution on friend Phelan. But in a sense we got there too late. You’d already done the job for us.”

“I’ll bet Carlton Bax is pretty pissed off. The non-existent locked room business may have been very clever but he still lost his whole collection one way or another.”

The thought gives him considerable pleasure.

“Well, maybe Marilyn can afford to buy him some new toys,” says Renata. “She’s been offered her own television show. ‘Marilyn After Midnight’. It’s not prime time but it’s a start. In fact things are looking up for the whole family. I gather Marilyn’s mother and father are having a trial reconciliation. And I hear that old man Lederer’s about to be given his own newspaper column — the voice of reason type thing.”

Barry shakes his head. He wants to say again that he can’t believe it, but these days he can believe just about anything.

“I bet Fat Les is pretty pissed off too,” he says.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well he’s going to end up in jail isn’t he, given the number of Volkswagens he blew up.”

“Very probably, but I don’t think the sentence will be all that long, and in any case, a little spell inside probably won’t do him too much harm. You know, I think Les is one of those people who has a need to be punished. He feels guilty. He knows he’s done wrong. He wants to pay his debt to society.”

“Spare me the pop psychology,” says Barry, sharply.

“Okay, I’ll save it for my readers.”

“And what about Phelan? Is he going to go to jail?”

“Who knows? It’s my experience that people like Phelan don’t go to jail. It doesn’t agree with them.”

“But wasn’t that the whole point? Isn’t that why you were trying to expose him?”

“I was trying to get a story, not be an avenging angel, but I certainly slowed him down a little.”

“He deserves worse’than slowing down.”

“Come on Barry, don’t be naive.”

“I just don’t understand why he isn’t rotting in a cell somewhere.”

“Could it be that he has a special relationship with the police?”

“With Cheryl Bronte?”

She nods.

“Maybe your next expose should be of her.”

“Maybe it should, but as it happens, I’ve been employed to be your ghost writer.”

The plane is full now. The doors are being closed. The overhead storage lockers are being slammed shut.

“I’ve never been to America,” says Barry.

“I know that.”

“I’ve never been out of England.”

“It’s time you did.”

“I find it all incredibly scary.”

“It’s brave of you to admit it.”

“Really?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be there to protect you.”

Barry looks at her carefully to see whether she’s mocking him. She doesn’t seem to be. She really seems to mean it. Barry feels better already.

“You know Barry, this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.”

“Really?”

“I’ve told you. I do what I have to do to get a story, but some of the things I do for myself.”

She squeezes his knee in a gesture of unfathomable ambiguity. Barry thinks he might as well enjoy it.

It is now that part of the pre-flight charade when the cabin crew wave their arms in the direction of the emergency exits and demonstrate how to strap on a life jacket. It only adds to Barry’s anxiety. He watches but he doesn’t really see. They look like mime artists. Then he notices that one of the air stewardesses looks oddly familiar. The hair and the uniform are unfamiliar but as she shows the correct way to inflate a life jacket by blowing down a small, transparent, plastic tube, Barry realises it’s Debby. She was as good as her word. She’s found a way to travel. Barry sinks down in his seat, puts a hand over his face, and pretends to be fascinated by the in flight magazine.

Much, much later the plane touches down. Barry and Debby have managed to spend the whole flight without admitting to each other’s existence. Not a glance, not a word, not a gesture has been exchanged. Renata has found all this screamingly funny and she has been very tempted to interview Debby to get extra background.

Renata and Barry go through passport control and although a huge, sandy-haired official with a walrus moustache gives him a hard time and says he looks like a mass murderer in his passport photograph, they are soon out of the airport and collecting their rental car from one of the lots. The light is harsh and glaring. Everything looks bright and hard, and Barry feels as though he’s on another planet.

“Sorry we can’t rent a Volkswagen Beetle,” says Renata. “The rental fleets don’t use them.”

Again he checks to see whether or not Renata is sending him up, but again she seems to be sincere. They take charge of a Ford Thunderbird and he can immediately see its advantages, its solidity, its comfort, the sense of sitting in someone’s office. It is not at all what he’s used to, but Renata looks perfectly at home with the power steering and the automatic gearbox and she sails the car out of the lot into the easy swell of American traffic.

Almost immediately they pass a small workshop selling secondhand tyres and hubcaps, and Barry sees his first American Beetle parked outside it. The car too looks very at home here, basking in the California sunshine; a candy purple convertible with Porsche alloy rims and lavender upholstery. Barry and Renata are soon on the freeway, heading towards a superior motel that Renata just happens to know. Barry is still not sure what the sleeping arrangements are going to be and he’s far too polite to ask. Renata drives swiftly, and she has the radio on, and consequently they have no idea that moments after they pass the purple convertible it blows up in a geyser of flame and, like many before it, is reduced to a tangle of blackened, burning wreckage.

EOF