| Lazarus dynasty drives off into the Sunset (5/08) | | Print | |
| Written by Mike Lazarus | |
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You could call it the end of an era. You could call it the end of a legacy. But after catching a whiff of reheated pot stickers, it’s probably most fitting to call it the end of a dynasty.
When I walk across the stage at the Cow Palace next month, I will be the last Lazarus of my generation to graduate from Lowell. For 11 consecutive years, either Kate, Nikki, Jack or myself has been sandwiched between “Lam’s” and “Lee’s” in the yearbook. While there are families whose Lowell careers have stretched over longer periods of times, no family that I could find had at least one child walk through the doors of 1101 Eucalyptus Dr. every day for an entire decade. During our time here, we infiltrated nearly all facets of Lowell: two captains of the baseball team, a captain of the girls’ tennis team and a member of a champion swimming team; three Shield & Scroll members, two editor-in-chiefs of The Lowell and an accomplished artist; and have made the courtyard, the grass outside the second floor and the stairs at the east end of campus the cool spot to hang out. Much has changed over those 11 years, yet one thing has remained constant: a cardinal red 1965 convertible Ford Mustang. While my oldest sister’s friends inherited Volvo station wagons and Honda Civics, my dad — the car buff — found something a little more head-turning. And so it began. From October 1998 to today, one of us has started the car, turned right onto Lake Street, left onto 19th Avenue, and right onto Eucalyptus Drive: around 2,000 trips, or roughly 100,000 miles. And not once has that car failed to get us to school on time. Not bad for a 53-year-old. This isn’t to say that we haven’t had our issues with the car. Quite the contrary. The following is an eclectic group of anecdotes that captures the true essence and character of the Mustang. Shortly after Kate received her license, she went to a friend’s party in Oakland — despite a parental mandate to only take the car to and from Lowell. Having never driven on the Bay Bridge before, she had a friend drive the car for her. When it came time to leave, however, the friend was nowhere to be found so she had to drive the car back home. Clueless as to how to get there, Kate followed a friend. Scared to take the airbag-less, huff-and-puff Mustang much over 30 mph, she quickly lost sight of her guide. When she eventually caught up with her leader, who parked his car in the middle of the Bay Bridge, he was not the least bit amused with Kate’s late-night grandma act. Two years later, Nikki parked her car at Lakeshore to grab a quick bite at Albertsons. The “quick” part went out the window when she locked the keys in the trunk. After unsuccessfully searching for the magnetic key hidden under the car, she saw a man approaching her, presumably drawn in by a good-looking girl driving a convertible. He asked if she needed help, gave her his business card and then, on his first try, pulled out the hidden key. He nonchalantly walked away saying nothing and Nikki looked at the business card in her hand. It read “Professional Psychic.” Two years ago, after Senior Boat, Jack, his date and another couple were on their way to an after-party in South San Francisco. As far as he was concerned, it might as well have been in South Los Angeles. The car stalled, stranding them somewhere between Highway 101 and the party. The other couple managed to hitch a ride to the party, but Jack and his date waited for AAA to tow them back home. Although Jack tried to impress her with the hot car, he probably got more brownie points for offering her his jacket as they stood outside the broken down classic. This fall, as I turned right off of my block and coasted down to a stop sign, I saw a cop car on the corner for a traffic check. I made sure to come to a complete stop, look both ways and slowly cross the intersection. But before I was halfway across, the policeman turned on his siren. I wondered what I possibly could have done wrong. The cop came up to my window and said (word-for-word, I kid you not), “Hey man, great car. I used to have one of these when I was a kid. You never see these cars anymore.” I blurted out some sort of thank you, still unsure if I was going to receive a ticket. My fears were laid to rest when the policeman told me, “By the way, good stop back there. Keep it up.” On the same block when I was driving home from school, two construction workers pulled me over to, I assumed, ask for directions. One of the workers greeted me the same way the cop did, but then proceeded to pull $7,000 from his pocket and make me an offer on the car. Caught off guard and with a nagging suspicion he was a drug dealer, I hurriedly declined and drove away. So there you have it. The story of one little car that has been parked at Lowell for over a decade. While the car will soon pull away, who knows, maybe a few years from now when we have kids, they will carpool to Lowell in a red Mustang and resurrect the Lazarus Dynasty. |
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to listen.
