If my Friends Could See Me Now…
I'd Have More Friends
Reprinted from Milwaukee Magazine, March, 1981 issue.

By Marcia Maher Conta

o me an Excalibur is a sword. So when the lady on the phone said she had read one of my articles and had an Excalibur she'd like me to use I figured she didn't like the article. Well, I thought, maybe it wasn't that terrific, but surely it's nothing to throw myself on a sword about.
    I was silent.
    She went on. She said she thought it would be fun for me to drive one around the city some weekend and find out people's reaction to it. I could have told her over the phone. It certainly wouldn't take the Great Kreskin to figure out what the reaction would be to a middle-aged woman riding a sword around town. 
    She said it would be fun to drive the Excalibur to the grocery store and easy to get people's reaction there. I thought it would probably be easy to get reactions but a little tricky to get the groceries home. She said it would be fun to pick up the kids at school. I was used to crank calls.
    "And then you could write an article about it," she said. "They are made in Milwaukee," she continued.
    "Look lady," I began . . .
    "Nancy. Nancy von Grossmann," she interrupted, "and there are only" about 1,850 people in the world driving" them."
    "I'm not surprised," I said.
    She went on, "They are custom built by hand. They are not like anything else on the road."
    I certainly had to agree with that!
    "Custom built, huh? Must be ex- pensive," I commented, just trying to humor her.
    "Thirty-thousand dollars," she replied.
    I yawned. Nothing this lady could say would surprise me.
    "Thirty-thousand dollars? Must be a fancy one," I said.
    "Well," she replied, "it's like the- classic Mercedes-Benz sports cars of the' 20's and 30's. It's the low slung, long nose, removable-hard-top Great Gatsby type car.

    "Oh, the Excalibur! The car!" I said.
    "Of course," she replied.
    "Of course," I said, feigning intelligence.
    I remembered seeing some advertisements for the Excalibur, pictures of elegant cars and elegant people - people so elegant that they can have picnics without flies. I remembered one of an elegant man in front of his elegant mansion on his way to an elegant black tie affair with his elegant Excalibur and matching woman. The Excalibur was him!
    I pictured myself in front of elegant "Pick and Save" on my way to Pizza Hut with my Excalibur and worn out t~ shirt and matching man. The Excalibur was not me. I'd do it!
    Although I had seen pictures of the Excalibur I was not prepared for the real thing when Nancy pulled into the driveway. William Yeats would have come up with something like "How many loved your moments of glad grace, and love your beauty . . ." Being less talented and more contemporary "all I could come up with was "Wow!"
    My second reaction was terror.
    "Hop in," Nancy said, vacating the driver's seat.
    She wanted me to back out of the " driveway. I wanted to back out of the whole thing. It wasn't too late. Sinking into the plush leather seat I was relieved to discover I couldn't reach the pedals and suggested to Nancy that she come back sometime when I'm taller. She suggested that I just move up the seat. It was too late.
    I looked at the dashboard. It had enough buttons and levers to play "Melancholy Baby." I counted 29 things on the dash. That's all I could do, count them. If I had been given a quiz to identify the 29 things I would only have passed "clock." And the clock bothered me. It worked. By getting in the car in the first place I had violated one of my rules: Never get in any vehicle lower than your navel. Now I was violating another: Never trust a car with a working clock.
    Knowing   the car  wouldn't   stall,    I

knew I had to drive it.
    "Well, Nancy, first things first. Let's get the ash tray in gear and have one for the road," I said pressing the air horn to light my cigarette.
    She pressed the lighter to light hers. She's conventional. She's also the kind of woman pictured in advertisements, the kind that can get in a bucket seat without putting her knee through her stocking, and can get out of a car without doing an imitation of Trigger. I liked her anyway.
    Sensing I had quickly grasped her competent explanation of the dash board, Nancy suggested that I start the car. After a little fidgeting there was a gentle-purr. I commented on how quiet the motor was. She said those were the windshield wipers. As I gave it another try, Nancy just smiled and snuck on her seat belt.
    On my first try on the accelerator I was surprised by the pickup and the power. I assured Nancy that there was no reason to hold her neck for the next takeoff and suggested that she just apply a little heat to the crick when she " got home. She suggested that I just apply a little less foot to the pedal until she got there. She's so conventional.
    Once we got near other cars I got nervous.
    "Nancy, I can't do it," I said.
    "Sure you can. It's just like any other car. The only difference is the front of the ear. It has a very long nose." "Sure," I said, "now it has. Later, maybe not. And anyway, if it's like any other car, where's the rattle?"
    "Marcia, I take it you've never driven a real luxury car before," she said.
    Very perceptive, I thought.
    "Listen, honey," I replied, "my idea of a luxury car is one with no kids in the back. Or one that doesn't smell like McChicken and french fries. Now that's class!"
    She suggested that I drop her at her house. She said I could practice parking there. Drop her at her house, yes. Park, no. She was asking me to violate , another one of my rules: never park a $30,000  car  I  said  I could not practice