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Cool, Not Cool

Carl Peters

    Why in the world — in the most densely populated state in the country, where the speed limit is capped 55 mph on most roads, where more than half the year the weather is either insufferably hot or pretty damn cold — does a guy that age want a Corvette convertible?
    Got to cost, maybe, 60 grand. And the insurance? I bet that could be up $2,000 annually. Maybe not that much. I don’t know. But a lot of money. And even if you can afford it, what’s the point of a fancy-schmancy sports car when you’re mostly driving on roads through suburbs or poor cities, or on the interstate or the New Jersey Turnpike. I can understand wanting a Corvette in your 20s, your 30s, maybe even in your 40s. But that guy who just passed me on the right — with the wind not blowing through his hair because he had no hair — looked like he’s pushing 60. At his age, it’s classier to drive a Mercedes.
    I guess you could say I’m driving an age appropriate car. A Hyundai Sonata. Spacious enough, economical. Got about 38 mpg on the highway when it was new. I don’t know about now, because it’s not new anymore and I’m rarely on the highway these days.
    I don’t drive that much at all, really, and I admit I was going a couple of miles under the speed limit when the dope in his Corvette, who had been behind me, swerved onto the shoulder to pass me. And then he saw what he considered an opportunity (a dangerous opportunity in my opinion) to swerve into the left lane.
    A quarter mile further up the road he was sitting at a red light. I pulled up next to him in the right lane.
    I rolled down my window. Our brief conversation confirmed what I suspected: he doesn’t have a lot going for him.
    “Hey,” I said. “Where’s the ...”
    “Go fuck yourself, you old fuck. Get off the fuckin’ road and die.”
    That’s what he said to me. “Go fuck yourself.” People are always saying that anymore. I don’t even know what it means. I know I can be too literal, and it’s just an insult, but still. I’d like think that if Clint Eastwood or Jack Nicholson wanted to insult me, they could come up with something better, something more original or clever. “Go fuck yourself.” Richard Pryor would at least make it sound funny.
    The light changed and he roared off again. Not cool. (Do people say cool anymore? I’ve gotten so old.) Those were probably designer sunglasses he was wearing, and of course he was smoking a cigar because it’s trendy now to buy cigars at a smoke shop. He’s making such an effort. The very opposite of cool.
    John Coltrane was cool. Sinatra. Robert Mitchum and Humphrey Bogart. Sean Connery as James Bond was cool; most of the other Bonds less so, and to varying degrees. There have been so many I’ve lost track.
    Joe Namath was cool once, but not now that he’s doing those TV commercials. I at least know I’m not cool. I take naps. I garden. I wear sweaters until the temperature hits almost 80 degrees.
    Not being cool is OK as long as you’re not trying desperately to be cool. I don’t think you’d call Jimmy Stewart or Tom Hanks or Yogi Berra cool, but they don’t need to be cool. (It’s hard to picture Yogi Berra driving a red Corvette convertible, isn’t it?) No one thinks their parents are cool. If you have cool parents when you’re a kid, you’ve got a problem.
    And even if you’re Steve McQueen, driving too fast on a road with traffic lights every two miles isn’t cool.
    Ha! Up ahead! The red Corvette got pulled over. Looks like the cop is writing him ticket. The cop actually looks pretty cool. The “go fuck yourself” guy looks like an ass. This is turning out to be a good day.
    I’m going to slow down as I pass by.
    I hope he sees me, the big dope. Yeah, it’s me, and I’m giving you the finger.
    I know that probably wasn’t a cool thing to do, but I did it anyway. And I’m glad. It felt good.

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