Shave and a Hair Cut

The little 4-cylinder engine whirred under the strain of the wide-open accelerator. The soft warm August air, full of fresh-cut grass and ripened blackberries, poured past my face. The top was down, the sun was on the horizon, and my 6'4" Teutonic roommate was driving.

Downtown Salem, what there was of it, sped by. We headed south toward the Main Event. It was a bar with rough edges, friendly staff, naked dancers and cold beer.

They knew us by name. They knew what we drank. I was looking forward to the best $2.00 New York steak in the state.

The light ahead turned red. Lars shifted down and brought the little red Miata to a stop. From a side street, another Miata pulled out and made a left turn around us. The middle-aged driver honked a quick toot-toot. Lars smiled and answered with his own horn.

"Know him?" I asked.

"No," said Lars.

The light turned green and we sped south on toward our prurient destination. The transmission bucked into 2nd, then again into 3rd. We swooped down into, then up out of the Gut. Up ahead, the next traffic light phased from amber to red, and again we coasted to a long slow stop.

"Beep-beep!"

The weathered woman with dark glasses in the black Miata beside us nodded at Lars.

"Beep-beep!" He nodded back.

"What, do you go to the same mechanic?" I asked.

"No," was all he said. He smirked. He was enjoying this.

On we went, toward the southern sector of Salem. The dimly lit sign for the bar was in sight. we were close. Soon I'd be drinking cold beer and tipping strippers to show me their naughty bits.

We slowed to allow opposing traffic to pass before making a left turn into the parking lot. A Doppler affected "beep-beep" was all I heard from a passing blue Miata. Lars casually tooted back, probably too late to be heard.

"What the fuck, man??" I raised my eyebrow and waited for an answer.

"It's a thing, you know? It's like an unwritten rule for Miata owners."

"I see," I said, though I really didn't. We had finally arrived. I had more important things to think about.

In recent years, however, I think I've started to understand. I drive one of those bulbous fish-eyed mini SUVs, and while other owners of my make and model don't give the Miata toot-toot salute, we do definitely recognize each other. Most often a nod or smile, sometimes a wave. It's like an informal team or tribe.

I'm sure others do it too. Perhaps, Passat owners have a high sign. Certainly, Saab drivers smile, and Beetle operators bat their eyelashes. Tonight, however, I observed the strangest car club call-and-response I've ever heard.

Mama was waylaid in Salem after work, and the Monkey and I were left to fend for food. Having loaded a steaming sack of tacos, we made for home. As we sat, stopped, waiting for our green arrow, my eye caught a rather large Fed Ex cargo truck making a sweeping left turn through the intersection.

Suddenly, with those teeth-trembling bone-jarring turbo-harmonics that only a large-truck's horn can make, the semi driver tapped out the familiar refrain of Shave and a Haircut.

"Toot ta ta toot toot..." It kept rolling through its turn.

Two beats later, the call was returned by another giant Fed Ex truck making a right turn in the opposite direction: "Toot-toot!"

Two bits.