A Hot Car: The Stuff of Boys’ Dreams

So here we are on the way to the auto show, driving past the new Staples Center, L.A.’s latest monument to professional sports and the selfless people who play them.

“When’s it going to be done?” the boy asks, admiring the arena.

“In time for the next lockout,” I say.

“They’d better hurry,” says the boy.

And into the Convention Center we go, wandering among the auto show displays and sliding in and out of the drivers’ seats, till the smell of the expensive leather clings to our clothes, like a cologne we could never afford.

“Here, try this one,” my friend Paul says, slipping out of a black Lincoln Navigator.

“Nice,” I say, gripping the fat steering wheel. “Very nice.”

Onward we go, across the giant showroom and the plush carpeting, which gets deeper as we get closer to the really expensive lines.

By the time we reach Lexus, the carpet is a good 4 inches deep, almost up past our ankles. Like walking on couch cushions, this carpet. After a few steps, we sink in so deep we can barely walk.

“Ouch,” the boy says, touching an ES 300 and getting a jolt of static electricity.

“Careful,” I say.

“Ouch,” he says again.

Every time we touch a car in the deep-carpet section, we get a zing of static electricity. As if to say, that’s how hot our cars are. Zing.

Then again, maybe it’s not the carpet. Maybe these cars really zing. At these prices, they ought to. $44,000? Zing. Ouch.

“Look, there’s the BMWs,” the boy says, zinging off across the room.

A few of the displays have models-actresses--some almost as pretty as the cars themselves--here to introduce us to the new features and answer any questions.

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On this Sunday, these models-actresses speak mostly to each other, huddling up in little groups of two or three, in their flight attendant-style clothing. Either they are very shy models, or they find auto show patrons boring. Probably both.

“What do you think they talk about?” I ask my friend Paul.

“Compression ratios,” Paul says.

“Yeah, probably,” I say.

“Look, there’s the Expedition!” says the boy.

At each display, the boy collects a brochure. After an hour, he has a trick-or-treat bag full of brochures, so heavy he needs to double-bag them. Like when you buy a ham.

“Easy on the brochures,” I say.

“Sure, Dad,” says the boy, grabbing another handful.

The brochures are pretty helpful. They all point out that the right car can change your life. Improve your IQ. Clear your complexion. Thicken your hair.

To prove it, the brochures are full of satisfied car owners, hugging and smiling in the mountains, or hugging and smiling at the beach, with a golden retriever at their sides or in their laps.

All the people in the brochures seem to have golden retrievers. Some of the cars apparently even come with golden retrievers, little yellow pups that probably jump out of the glove boxes and lick your face on the way home, instantly changing your life.

Most of all, the brochures assure us that it wasn’t serendipity that created these cars. Nope, it was hard work.

At Ford, they’ve somehow “welded together past and present with the heat of driving excitement.”

At Dodge, they’ve “changed the face of the automotive landscape in America.”

“Whew,” I say. “They’ve been busy.”

“Come on, Dad, let’s go see the Viper,” the boy says.

The Viper. Only the V-10 Viper can stop us in our tracks. With 460 horsepower packed into its buff body, it looks like something you’d use to bomb Iraq.

“Awesome,” says the boy, his voice growing a little lower in the presence of such a great car. Because if any car could induce puberty, it’s the Viper.

“Awesome,” says Paul, his voice a little lower too.

And so our day goes, wandering from one giant hall to the next, lingering at the Porsche display, laughing at the KIAs, gawking at Nicolas Cage’s bright yellow Ferrari.

To pass the time, we make up names for cars that don’t exist but should.

“Hey, Paul, there’s that new Chrysler Viagra.”

But mostly, we just admire the fine cars, maybe the simplest pleasure in a guy’s life, something he can always look forward to. His next car.

“Maybe we can never afford the great house,” Paul likes to say. “But someday maybe we could afford a great car.”

Which makes the boy’s eyes grow wide, thinking about which great car he’ll someday have. A Ferrari? A Porsche? Tonight, in his dreams, he’ll probably take a Viper up PCH and set those 460 horses free.

As we pass the Chevy display, he reaches out and touches the newest Corvette.

Zing.

“Ouch,” the boy says.

“Careful,” I say.

“Look, a Ford Nympho,” Paul says.

“Where?” the boy says.

“Over there,” Paul says, pointing at a white SUV.

And across the deep carpeting we go.

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Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.