Silver Platter Driver’s License
It was November 1963, and I was ready to get my driver’s license. Always the salesman, my father chose a brand-new 1964 Dodge Dart from his showroom for my driving test. I think this was the third-generation Dart. It was an instant market success and remained extremely popular until the end of its production run in 1976.
When the registry man at the Quincy Registry of Motor Vehicles saw the Dart, he gave it the “star” treatment. He greeted my father the way everyone in Quincy did, being familiar with the Hassan Brothers and the two automobile businesses. He and my dad walked slowly around the car, examining every feature while I stood and waited in the shadows.
Once the oos and aahs subsided, we set out with my father in the back seat and the registry man riding shotgun. I felt relaxed and confident with my dad in the back, and I suspected that passing the driving test would be a sinch no matter how badly I drove.
The registry man was a good-looking Irishman. His face was a little reddish, and his brown uniform was sort of tight all over. With some effort, he slid into the shiny new car seat and arranged himself halfway between the front and the back so he could talk to my father about the Dart. The interior was a new shade of green that closely matched the car’s two-tone green and white exterior colors.
In a lilting tone, he turned to me and quietly commanded, “Give it the gas, Mary . . .”
He turned to my dad, “Peppy, right, Mr. Hassan?”
As he turned back to face the front, I could hear him sucking in the new car smell like it was oxygen.
Twisting to the back again, he asked, “What kind of engine is in this little beauty, did you say, Mr. Hassan?”
For quite a while, the registry man issued me driving commands and intermittently lobbed questions to my dad over the back seat.
“Take a left here, Mary.”
“Parallel park over there, Mary.”
In this attempt, however, the front two wheels went up over the curb. I sat silently behind the wheel as we perched on the sidewalk. It seemed an inordinately long time, but I knew not to interrupt the ongoing conversation. Finally, the registry man noticed and said, “Whoops! Okay, Mary. Let’s back it up slowly now, very slowly.”
Both my passengers expressed their utmost concern for the car. Turning and winking at my dad, the registry man said, “We don’t want to hurt this beautiful new car, right, Mr. Hassan?”
Right. And that was the day my driver’s license was handed to me on a silver platter, so to speak. Dart sold? Definitely.