The GTO

It was gold and new and sat in the parking lot representing everything grand and perfect about the world. The year was 1965, a year Sandy Koufax and Willie Mays were the heroes of baseball, the Vietnam War seemed upsetting to our parents, we enjoyed our black and white television set with 3 channels and an antenna that required adjustment frequently, and Dr. Seuss books were an adventure in reading (that mean Grinch!). We played hard at recess, usually getting angry about the rules of the game, disagreeing on who touched whom, wondering about our friends, filthy from falling on the dirt, most often bleeding somewhere, fascinated with beetles, spiders, and mostly the horny toads that scurried everywhere we went, dispensing an odd brown substance from their eyes when cornered (later we were told it was blood--neato!). We walked home each day regardless of the distance, not knowing that walking home would one day be an unusual practice, and we hoped to get some guys together for a game of army men in someone's backyard.

And the object of our love and adoration sat in the parking lot day after day, shining in all its glory, teasing us, winking at us, playing hard to get, shimmering with wavy gold polish, supported by tires guaranteed to win every race, and demonstrating an elegance beyond the normal world. Its very elite luster shouted a type of disdain toward the common, with a masked sneer lying just below its golden surface. A sneer that gave it yet another dimension of being untouchable and beyond our imagination. It was a Pontiac GTO and it was perfect in all respects.

http://ultimategto.com/carshows/gtoaa05/65_jk055_2.jpg

We assumed it was owned and driven by a goddess (of course that word was not in our vocabulary back then), or at least someone not of this mortal world. In fact it was difficult to associate the perfection of the GTO with a human being. We spent most of our time staring at it and trying to relate it to our lives as first graders. The GTO was better than our playground, smarter than Mrs. Farnsworth our teacher, faster than Willie Mays, tougher than John Wayne, more exotic than a Dr. Seuss book, and without a doubt prettier than Valerie Johnson. Valerie was amazing, a blond angel in first grade who always got the answers right. She wore a yellow dress everyday and was never dirty. Her smile was magical and she must have lived in a castle with people serving her everything. We were in love with Valerie (even though we never would talk to her--after all she was a girl), but we were also in love with the GTO.

Therein was the dilemma. GTO or Valerie? Who was better? Several weeks of discussion went by while staring at both and each day we came to the same conclusion--the GTO was superior. Valerie was close, but she paled in comparison. Our object of desire, the unquestioned treasure, the motivation for our future, was the GTO. In spite of the perfection of Valerie, she just simply was not the GTO. And as we decided upon the GTO, it became the example for everything good and every victory in the playground or on the sandlot was about the GTO. "We won, we get the GTO" was heard everyday in some way. The world was right because the GTO was the goal for everything we did.

Valerie was quickly forgotten, she was a girl after all, until the terrible thing happened. One morning as we gathered before school started, we went over to the fence that separated the parking lot from the gathering area, and there we saw a sight that no 5 year old boy should ever have to see: the GTO was dirty and had a dent in the fender. Something horrible had happened, a wreck of some kind and the beautiful object of perfection was damaged. It was human and showed dirt and was no longer perfect. It was just another car and with it went all our hopes and dreams for the future. It was as common as we were and nothing special. Acknowledging this horrific reality was a little difficult for a few minutes, until we were back on the playground talking about Sandy Koufax and John Wayne and looking for horny toads. The year was 1965 and the GTO was dirty. That same day, Valerie Johnson had messed up hair and missed some answers when the teacher called on her, plus she lost a couple of teeth and looked funny. Our world had fallen apart.

But our army men were the same and they awaited our next war, full of sound effects that five year old boys enjoy and disagreements on where the bullets were landing. Life returned to normal and we had other objects to admire. Admittedly, I still glanced at Valerie occasionally and in a moment of weakness might look over at the dirty GTO, but life went on and there was too much to do to dwell on what might have been. Our dreams may have been interrupted with a dose of reality, but dreams have a way of returning in different forms, lying just below the surface anxiously hoping for another opportunity. Plenty of dreams abounded over the years, but I never forgot that GTO and all it represented.