My Best Friend's Girl

Jack's not really my best friend, not the way Kay is — he's a guy, after all — but we've known each other since the first George Bush sent bombers to the Gulf. I know most of his secrets, and he knows most of mine, which has gotta count for something. I think it counts for a lot, actually.

Jack is the person who named me Sass, and the only one who calls me that offline. His name isn't Jack, either, but that's what I've always called him. It suits him.

I like Jack because he not only loves cars, he loves the kind of cars I love: fast, sexy, and German. And he loves music. Plus, he has what all 5'11" of me considers a terrific bonus: he's 6'3".

Besides, I kinda like the way, I like the way he dips.

I'm not his girlfriend, but then, he doesn't have one. His best girl is his 1992 BMW 525i. He calls her Beauty, and he dotes on her the way Nero Wolfe dotes on his orchids. She was quite the hot babe when he first started going out with her in 1995. A technie geek girl, too: she had a car phone installed in between the two front seats.

(You have to remember, this was at a time when cell phones were the size of toasters, and even the most up-to-date technorati were carrying Cantel flip phones — in their briefcases.)

Beauty is, well, beautiful. Elegant. And she looks great in black leather. She's perfect for Jack.

She's very yar.

The last time I saw Beauty I couldn't help but notice she had a few beauty spots. Her windshield was cracked, and her door had been dinged, and someone, some abominable asshole who ought to be strung from the gaff by his balls, had keyed her. Her suspension was shot, and her bum wiggled. Jack's financial circumstances at the time didn't allow for him to take proper care of her, and that just about killed him.

Jack's always taken good care of Beauty. Not like her previous owner, who loved her while she was shiny and new, but as soon as things started to go wrong abandoned her with never a backward glance to the BMW dealer.

Beauty can be willful. Impulsive, even. Difficult to handle. Jack told me that when he first got her, she scared the crap out of him. I knew he loved her, though, when I watched him wash and wax her for hours, in the dead of February, in an airplane hanger at the regional airport where his stepfather works.

That was when Jack and Beauty lived here. Jack moved to California in 1998, and he didn't take Beauty with him then, but eventually he sent for her.

Much of her life in California has been one of luxurious leisure, as befits a classy dame like her. Jack would dress her up and take her out from time to time, when the weather was fine, but for the daily drugery of work he had a BMW M5. When the temporary financial setback occurred, Jack sold the M5 without a second thought, but was in agony at the possibility of losing Beauty. Fortunately, it didn't come to that, but as Jack's only girl she did get more of a workout than she had become accustomed to, and she wasn't at all pleased about aging.

Jack has owned other cars. A Porsche Carrera. The M5. When he compares them to Beauty he calls them bagels. (A private joke, Gentle Reader, which I simply won't share with you.) And Beauty's been driven by other men. She's even been driven by me.

Once, Jack went six years without driving Beauty. They always end up together, eventually, though.

She's learned to be patient, though it's not in her nature. She knows she has to be, if she wants Jack to keep her. He tells me he'll be getting a new M6 when they come out next fall, and I can't wait for him to take me for a ride in it. More than that, though, I hope I'll ride in Beauty again some day. I know he'll always keep her.

Last summer Jack had a diabetic episode while he was on the highway with Beauty. It was an unusually bad one; a sugar crash that came on abruptly and inconveniently, while he was speeding down the 101, with no Coke or Werther's or Life Savers handy. He called me the next day to tell me about it. His voice and demeanor were off; I knew something was terribly wrong.

As he talked he paced in his apartment, getting his bearings. He had just woken up. He assessed the situation and reported it to me, three thousand miles away: His hand was bloodied, and there was gravel embedded in his palm. There were smears of blood on his sheets. His knees were banged up. But his clothes were in a pile on the floor, and weren't damaged. He couldn't remember anything about the day before.

I asked if he could see Beauty. He looked out the window and said yes, she's there, in her spot, right where she's supposed to be.

Jack, I said, put down the phone, and go outside and check on her. See if she's OK. Look inside; maybe she has a clue about what happened to you.

He did, but she didn't.

He could only remember that somehow, somehow he made it to an exit, and then to a convenience store, where he sat for two hours drinking Coke, trying to get his sugar balance back. He had a receipt from the store in his pocket. But he didn't remember driving to the store, and had no idea how he got home, or how his injuries had been sustained.

I think Beauty saved him. But Jack hasn't been the same since.

He refused to drive Beauty after that. He didn't trust himself with her. He was afraid he'd hurt her. Don't misunderstand: he's not afraid of driving. He still drives. He just doesn't drive Beauty, he's that afraid of what he might do to her.

Jack once told me that men who are captivated by beautiful women are dangerous. And captivated is a most apropos word to describe his feelings toward Beauty.

He's stubborn: When he gets an idea in his head, there's no swaying him. He might come 'round, eventually, but it'll be on his own terms, and no amount of well-intended cajolling or persuasive words will shake him.

The thing is, if you knew him, if you'd ever seen him with Beauty, you'd understand immediately that he'd rather die than hurt her. He'd very likely kill anyone else who tried.

Jack would slay a dragon for Beauty.

Last week, Jack's financial reversals were reversed, and he's back on top again. He sent Beauty to the BMW spa (to be pampered by men undoubtedly named Karl-Heinz and Jürgen), and now she's back to her stunning old self. To celebrate, Jack took her to Santa Barbara, the most beautiful place in all of California, if not the world. And he sent me this picture of her on the pier:



See, I told you she was gorgeous.

She's no bagel.

Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can picture them, riding off into the empyrean sunset together, toward Half Moon Bay.

* * *
In the next story, Sass remembers her grandfather. In February, she'll tell you the story of Jack and Diane, which explains how she got the nickname Sassafras. And next summer you'll meet Jack's best human friend.