My Comet: A first car with lasting 'memories'

As a newly retired person with a valid driver’s license, it seems I am now a free ride-share service for the young and/or car-less.

In that capacity, I often drive past my old neighborhood in East Northport. And that has brought back memories of some poor decisions I made regarding a beige 1966 Mercury Comet. The year was 1975, and I was 21 and living above Mama Jean’s pizzeria, now La Sunamita deli on Laurel Avenue.

I saw a Pennysaver ad about a car for sale. I drove to Greenlawn, saw the car in a dark garage and, based on its starting on the first try, bought it.

The owner assured me it was a spectacular value, not a thing wrong with it, and it should last forever. That prediction did not quite come true. It had several issues, especially with the alternator and transmission. Still, when it was working, it had great acceleration. And, as my first car, of course I loved it.

Engine problems mounted, though, and within months I scheduled a morning appointment at a repair shop right down the street on Larkfield Road. Since the car often quit on me, one night I decided to drive it to the car shop at 2  a.m., when almost no one would see me, sparing myself public embarrassment if it conked out during daytime.

On the way to the mechanic, my car did die about two blocks from the shop, and I got out to push it on a thankfully flat section of road. I was soon terrified to see a police car behind me. I thought of all the fines I might be subject to.

I asked the police officer if I was getting a ticket, and he asked, “What for?” I replied, “Obstructing traffic?” He pointed out that there was no traffic.

I then suggested, considering the hour, “Disturbing the peace?” He stated I wasn’t.

“What about operating a motor vehicle without shoes?” For some reason that I still do not recall, I rarely wore shoes in those days during the summer, and pushing a car on a roadway did not seem to qualify as a reason to change my policy.

“Technically, you’re not operating the vehicle,” he said, emphasizing “not.” To my astonishment, he kindly helped push my car to the shop.

A few days later, my car was fixed, and I remember it was a crushing financial blow equal to a week’s wages, about $90. But I had saved some money and walked to my bank, near Pulaski Road. But at around 4  p.m. I found the bank closed — except for the drive-up window.

I felt a little weird being a pedestrian standing in the drive-up line with three cars ahead of me. When my turn came, I was dismayed to find that “insurance regulations” prohibited me from making a withdrawal.

This was a dilemma worthy of O. Henry. I could not get the car without the money, and I could not get the money without the car.

So, I tried hitching a ride — on the bank line. A nice lady in a station wagon came to my rescue. As a person who had hitchhiked all over New England and once to Tucson, Arizona, this would be my shortest hitch ever, about 10 feet.

I got my money, retrieved my lovely Comet, took off my shoes and drove straight to Crab Meadow Beach!

Reader Ann Rita D'Arcy lives in Huntington Station.