The Getaway After the Getaway

The spotlight is always on the newlyweds: the smiles, the waves, the laughter as they are whisked away in my vintage Pontiac. It’s their grand getaway, the moment everyone remembers and everyone photographs. As Sean and Samantha eased into the back seat of my car, their bubbly jubilation climbed in with them.

Sometimes newlyweds talk to each other, and I am their discrete chaperone. Sometimes they want to wrap me into their conversations. This time, Sean and Samantha were eager to chat in the few miles between the church and the reception.

“So, how did you two meet?” I asked.

“Well,” Samantha said, “we were both attending Aquinas, and Sean lived on the dorm floor above mine.”

“I see.”

“I guess we were getting a little rowdy,” Sean confessed, “and Sami filed a noise complaint against me and my buddies.”

“Well, that’s quite a way to meet!” I said, and we all shared a good laugh.

“Where are you honeymooning?” I asked next, as we neared the end of our short trip together.

“We’re going to Chicago tomorrow,” Samantha said. “From there, we’re taking the train to Portland for a color tour.”

“How cool. I’ve heard a lot of honeymoon plans in my line of service, but never a train honeymoon,” I said. “I have to tell my wife, Emily, about this. She will absolutely love it. Are you traveling by sleeper car?”

“Yes,” Samantha confirmed.

“I’ve always wanted to,” I said. “I guess it is on my bucket list now.”

We pulled up to Felt Mansion, and I opened the door. I took the bride by the hand and guided her satin train through the doorway. A firm handshake from Sean, a warm hug from Samantha, and they were off to celebrate.

With that, I was off to the chauffeur’s getaway.

There is a prescription for these getaways after the getaway: I take the back roads home, because my cars were built for life before interstates. That day, I bypassed I-196 in favor of Blue Star Highway, to take the tree-lined, two-lane roads at a leisurely pace. The windows were rolled down by old-fashioned cranks. On this September evening, the open windows invited a warm breeze to dance through the cabin made of stainless steel trim and gray wool upholstery.

My forearm rested on the door sill, sleeves rolled up to soak in the warmth of the late-day sun. A hand on the shift knob and a foot on the clutch made for a marriage of man and machine. Every gear change settled me deeper into the rhythm of the road.

In the rearview mirror, the back seat sat empty. Traces of glitter lay on the upholstery and rose petals on the floor, reminders of the celebration just moments before. The breeze carried Samantha’s perfume around the cabin, masking the musty scent of the vintage interior. In the quiet of the moment, I exhaled.

The Pontiac and I chased the sunset on our way home. The western sky glowed in shades of rose and gold, the setting sun caught by the clouds along the horizon; the whole mural was mirrored in the glossy black paint of the hood.

Gazing into the sunset, I thought about growing up in Pontiac. My dad worked at Pontiac Plant 8, in the same factory where my car rolled off the assembly line in 1951. On family day, we were able to enter Plant 8 and watch dad install a battery in a car every sixty seconds.

Dad worked at Plant 8 until it closed in 1982 after fifty-five years of production and over nine million cars built. To commemorate that day, Pontiac Motor Division invited my grandfather to drive his 1927 Pontiac off the line for the second time in its existence, pacing the last car built in Plant 8. It was a proud yet bittersweet moment for all of us.

I wondered whether anyone on that line imagined the car they built would survive seventy-five years. Or that it would spend its vintage life carrying more than fifty couples at the moment they start their lives together. Preserving this elegant car and sharing it with others feels like a way to honor my family and my city.

At home, I pulled into the garage and set the parking brake. I wiped the car down with a microfiber cloth. The hood was warm, and the engine ticked and crackled as it cooled. A faint smell of gasoline mixed with Samantha’s perfume. Each getaway offers its own form of meditation. Sometimes it is a hood mirroring the sunset; sometimes it is the wipers keeping time with the patters of rain like a metronome. As I lowered the garage door, I thought about how much I cherish these rides after the ride, a chance to spend time with my heritage and let the soul catch up.