Here, on some New England campus in the early 1960s, are a whole bunch of young students engaged in the sport of ‘jamming’, in which they attempt to cram as many people as possible into a Beetle. Bodies press together, hands, faces and erogenous zones are brought into unlikely and intimate contact. It just wouldn’t be the same in a Cadillac.
Here are the Beastie Boys, white rap group and general funsters wearing VW logo badges on chains round their necks like pieces of jewellery. And not long after a few media appearances, it’s impossible to leave any Volkswagen on any street in England without fearing that the badge will have been ripped off by the time you get back.
Here are the guys at Doyle Dane Bernbach, the advertising agency that’s landed the account for Volkswagen in America. Thing is, some of these guys are Jewish, and naturally they have a few qualms. Hey, they say, Adolf Hitler was responsible for the Volkswagen. Adolf Hitler killed six million Jews. I’m a Jew. So is it ethical for me to help sell the Volkswagen? Big decision.
With the integrity for which advertising agencies are famous, they decide it is ethical and they go on to create one of the most respected and successful and talked about advertising campaigns there’s ever been. The campaign doesn’t mention the war, doesn’t mention Adolf Hitler, scarcely even mentions the fact that the car is German; but they sure feel better for having had the qualms.
And here are the factories in Nigeria and South Africa, in New Zealand and Belgium and Singapore, in Australia and Portugal and Yugoslavia and Brazil; all closed now. Only Mexico still makes them. Mexico, a country where the Beetle is known as the Navel, because everybody’s got one. Not quite true in the case of the car; demand far exceeds supply.
And where are they going, all these fellow travellers? What’s the destination? Why, they’re heading for the vanishing point, following the yellow brick road towards the darkness at the edge of town. Are you there Dean Moriarty?
And here am I, writing this novel in a room full of Volkswagen books and Volkswagen clippings and Volkswagen models and Volkswagen memorabilia. I could pretend it’s all just research material, but who would believe me? Here I am skimming through biographies and running through indexes, looking desperately for material. Did the Yorkshire Ripper drive a Beetle? Did Jeffrey Dahmer? And if they did then that’s great, that’s another chapter I can write. Or is there something from my own life, some anecdote or coincidence that I might have forgotten about? Did Glint Eastwood drive a Beetle? Did Billy Connolly? Did Eddie Van Halen? Did John Paul Getty II? Well yes, as a matter of fact they all did, but what exactly can I do with that?
And sometimes I ask myself ‘Why a Beetle?’ and sometimes all the stuff that the Ferrous Kid says to Barry back in the first chapter about blankness and ubiquity seems like reason enough, and other times it doesn’t. Sometimes I think I might have chosen some other familiar, cultish, man-made object. Why not the Luger or the Zippo Lighter or the Fender Strat? But that’s another story, another obsession, another novel.
♦
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” says Barry Osgathorpe. “I can’t believe I’m sitting in a 747 about to fly to Los Angeles with a woman I hardly know.”
“You know me,” says Renata Caswell. “And you’ll get to know me even better now that I’m your ghost writer.”
“I don’t know that I need a ghost writer.”
“Yes you do, Barry. You have a story to tell. I want to hear it and I want to write it down for you.”
Barry has never flown before. It is all very strange and yet surprisingly mundane. The interior of the plane is so cheap and plastic, the muzak so dreadful. His fellow passengers look so ordinary and they’re taking this all so easily in their stride. None of them seems to be experiencing the same blend of excitement and uneasiness that he is.
“But why do I have to tell it you in America?” he asks.
“Because Barry, dear heart, having just been central in a national scandal involving an ex-Member of Parliament, a television weathergirl, neo-Nazis, New Age culture and exploding Volkswagens, it makes a lot of sense to get away for a while. A lot of very unsavoury hack journalists will be after you if you stay home. I’m here to protect you. Besides, you signed an exclusive contract with my newspaper, didn’t you?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“It was a good idea. It still is.”
“But you’ve got the story already. Why do you need me?”
“You’re the story. You’re the human angle.”
“Am I really?”
The prospect doesn’t make him happy. He feels a ripple of tension building up inside him, and he’s not sure whether it’s fear of flying or fear of being a human angle.
“Besides,” says Renata, “you’ll like America.”
And yes, he thinks he believes her. He thinks he probably will enjoy the friendly people, the open roads, the big skies, the food. At least he thinks he will. At least he hopes he will. He is no longer sure what does and doesn’t give him pleasure. Somewhere back there, like Davey, he fears he may have lost the plot.
“So let me get this straight,” he says, “were you only ever involved with Phelan so that you could get a story?”
“Of course.”
“But you slept with him and everything.”
“I didn’t sleep exactly. I did what I had to do to get a story.”
“That’s dedication, or something,” says Barry. “So does that mean you’re not a neo-Nazi?”
“Come on Barry. Surely you can see that I’ve got old — fashioned liberal written all over me.”
He looks at her. He isn’t at all sure what’s written on her. She feels the need to assert her credentials again.
“You know me,” she insists.
“I know sod all.”
“What don’t you know?”
“Well, for a start, where was Carlton Bax’s locked room?”
“There was no locked room, Barry,” she says with exaggerated patience. That was the point. Quite a Zen thing, really, Barry. I thought you might have appreciated that. The locked room was in the mind of the beholder. Carlton Bax knew that certain people wanted to get their hands on his prize exhibit and they believed, because Bax had made them believe, that the Hitler Volkswagen must be in the locked room. Therefore they were searching for that room, searching for something that didn’t exist. It was a good scam. Meanwhile the Beetle in question was sitting quite happily in Mrs Lederer’s bedroom. He gave it her ostensibly as a present, but in fact for safe keeping. The last place anyone would think of looking. Not even Marilyn knew it was there.”
He prefers not to think about Marilyn. It only brings him pain. In fact, when he gets right down to it, he realises that she has never really brought him anything else. He tries-not to think about her and Carlton Bax, not to dwell on the fact that they’re probably together right now, probably in a suite in some swanky hotel, between the sheets, having a long celebratory sex session, all hot mouths and swelling parts. He feels ill, and it definitely isn’t fear of flying. Like she said, sex is a funny business.
“And what about Butcher?” he asks. “Did he really rape you?”
“Ah well, Butcher is an interesting case. Right from the beginning I knew there was something different about him, but I wasn’t sure what. Eventually I worked it out. The difference is, he’s gay. Phelan sent a gay boy to do a man’s job, and Butcher didn’t want any part of it. He set me free, told me to make myself scarce, then he and the rest of his gang went off to the Gathering of the Tribes. That was fine by me. Left alone, knowing that Phelan was away too, I was able to go back to the bunker and release Carlton Bax and Marilyn, and then we went to Cheryl Bronte and told her the whole story. It took a while, but she finally believed us. Then we piled into her car and headed for the Gathering of the Tribes to exact our retribution on friend Phelan. But in a sense we got there too late. You’d already done the job for us.”