Rules of the Road (1993) - full transcript

- [Voiceover] For my 13th caller

with a registered
KISS car at 995 9870,

prizes furnished by Columbia
Records and 98.7 KISS.

(upbeat static-laden music)

* You have been
single for a long time

* And I don't wanna
cramp your style

* Still, you insist
you want to settle down

* But I know better, you
can't change years over night

* And asking that,
I never would do

* So here is the solution
that comes to mind

* I'll be your number one



* You still can have your fun

* Whenever you need love

* I will give it to you,
just the way you like it *

- [Voiceover] She earned her
living working in the trades,

and every time a
new job came up,

she had to transport her
equipment and supplies

to the location.

It was hard to
manage without a car,

but even more difficult
to afford one.

Her older brother had
often helped her out

when she was in a tight corner,

and this time was no exception.

As soon as she explained
the problem to him,

he offered to get her
a car the next time



she came for a visit.

For many years, she'd gone
down to celebrate Thanksgiving

with her brother
and his girlfriend.

It was a trip she
always took alone,

partly because she thought
he'd be uncomfortable

if she brought along
her own girlfriend.

When November came around, I
tried as usual to be invited.

But once again she
headed south by herself,

while I made plans to be
with my friends in town.

She called one night
and told me they'd spent

most of their time checking
out used car dealers

and private owners,

and had finally found
a model that she liked

and he could afford.

When she drove up to our
building a few days later,

it was hard for me not to laugh.

There she sat,
beaming with pleasure,

behind the wheel of a big
old beige station wagon

with a luggage rack on top

and fake wood paneling
along the sides.

It was a 1983 Oldsmobile
Cutlass Cruiser,

a sensible family car.

* mom-boo-gee-kay-o

* Well, don't look any further

* Don't you look no further

* Day-o day-o, mombajee ai-o

* Well don't look any further

* Someone to count on
in a world of changin'

* Here I am, babe, stop
where you're standin'

* What you need is a
lover, you need a lover

* To love you all
over, love me all over

* Oh baby, don't you look
any further, further *

She was proud of
her new possession,

but worried about how
she was going to pay

for the insurance
and maintenance.

Since I wanted to help her out

and was anxious to
use the car myself,

we decided to share
all the basic expenses,

but we still didn't
share ownership.

So if both of us needed to
use it at the same time,

the car was hers.

Although I sometimes complained
about this arrangement,

it was a pretty good one,

given the fact that she drove
so little when she was at home

and often went out
of town to work.

I was never happy
to see her go away,

but I liked being able
to use the car at will.

Moreover, we'd recently
moved into Brooklyn,

and I'd already spent 15 years

getting around Manhattan
on a subway or a bicycle.

So it didn't take long
for me to get hooked

on the luxury of a car.

* The cracked bells
and washed-out horns

* Blow into my face with scorn

* But it's not that way
I wasn't born to lose you

* I want you, I want you

* I want you so bad

It wasn't the car I'd
been dreaming about

but it compensated for its
old age and lack of style

by having automatic
transmission, power steering,

a good radio, and a V-8 engine.

I never understood
what a V-8 engine was,

but it gave the
car great pick-up

as she proudly demonstrated
to me during our first drive.

I only realized later how much
she disapproved of speeding,

and I would try to
restrain myself whenever

she was in the car.

But when I was alone
I liked to peel out

as soon as the
light turned green

especially if the
driver in the next lane

was a restless young
man gunning his engine.

I knew he wouldn't
expect competition

from a sleepy-looking
car like hers.

In fact, no one would
expect much if they only

judged that car
by its appearance.

From a distance, the
trim looked almost real,

but up close you could
see that it was made of

scratched and faded
contact paper.

The conservative beige
and wood exterior

was complimented by an interior

the color of
bittersweet chocolate.

The seats were upholstered

in a slightly fuzzy
synthetic fabric,

in a matching shade of brown.

But those ugly seats
were surprisingly
soft and comfortable,

and they didn't stick to
your legs on hot summer days.

* That girl is pretty wild now;

* The girl's a super freak;

* I'd really like to taste her

* Ev'ry time we meet.

* She's all right;
she's all right;

* That girl's all
right with me yeah.

* Hey hey hey hey

I wasn't used to having a
car around all the time,

because our family only
had one for a few years

while I was growing up.

It was also a station wagon,

a bright turquoise Chevrolet
with gray vinyl seats.

On long summer drives,

my sister and I would
climb into the back

and lie down with our bare
feet sticking out the window.

Then we'd look up at the
sky and play word games

while the wind whipped
around our sunburnt toes.

We'd also try not to
listen to our parents

when they startod to argue

about whether or
not we were lost.

My father considered
it a point of honor

never to ask directions,

so we would often drive
in circles for hours

while he tried to
second-guess the route

and my mother tried
to convince him

to stop at the
nearest gas station.

* So against all
odds, we made a start

* We got serious, this
wouldn't turn to dust

* We build it up and build
it up and build it up

* And now it's solid

* Solid as a rock

* That's what this love is, oh

* That's what we've got, oh

Even though my parents approved

of our occasional weekend drives

they both considered
it self-indulgent

to use a car on a daily basis.

Instead, they took great
pride in walking and biking

and using public transportation.

And while I admired the hedonism

of my friends' one- or
even two-car families,

I also inherited some of
my parents' Puritanism.

When I got old enough to think
about getting a car of my own

I lusted after Jaguars and BMWs,

then told myself
I'd be better off

with something
cheap and practical

and finally decided

that I didn't really
need a car after all.

But when I did imagine
something cheap and practical,

it was never a station wagon.

I'd had some good experiences
in our turquoise Chevy,

but not enough to make
me covet other ones.

Now I discovered
how wrong I'd been.

Meanwhile, I let the
car make me so lazy

that I even started
driving to the laundromat

two blocks from my house.

I knew I should feel ashamed
about causing more pollution

but I was too giddy with
relief at leaving behind

my parents' spartan ways.

* Oh yeah

* Here we go, here we go

* One more time

* With the wind and
your fingers in my hair

* Kind of think we're going
for an extended throw down

* So drop the top baby

* And let's cruise on into
this better than ever street *

I appreciated the car for
serving my practical needs,

but that affection
turned into love

the first time we used it
to get away from the city.

Both of us liked doing things
on the spur of the moment,

and now we could
just get up and go

whenever the urge struck.

We visited friends for a
weekend in the country,

took day trips to the beach,

or just drove into Manhattan

when the prospect
of riding the subway

would have kept us at home.

I always liked the
scramble to get ready

before leaving town.

One of us would run
off to the store

for mayonnaise
and a can of tuna,

while the other rummaged
through the closet

for sleeping bags or the
missing badminton racket.

When everything was together,

we'd have a cup of coffee,
figure out which route to take,

throw our bags in the back,

and then head out to
anywhere but here,

if only for a short while.

When I was doing the driving

I felt as though I was
carrying her in my arms,

away from the relentless
claustrophobic city

towards an unpredictable
and generous expanse

of forest or ocean.

I wanted to give her that,

and I wanted to be with
her when she got there.

When she was driving, I liked
to flip through the Road Atlas

searching for all the
towns with peculiar names,

or play DJ with the
worn-out tape deck.

Or just curl up with
my feet on the dash

and my hand resting lightly
on the back of her neck.

The fact is, we didn't
go away that often,

but the car always
held out the promise

of future trips and the
memory of past ones.

(cars honking)

But recalling our past trips

also means remembering the
long and bitter arguments

we often had as the trees
and buildings flew past.

Some of those fights were
just the result of a weekend

filled with too much
visiting and talking.

But some were the
stuff of deep division,

a continuation of the
fights that raged at home.

However, it was different
to fight in the car

because of the danger posed by
a desperate and angry driver.

If I was behind the wheel,

I simply drove
faster and faster,

barely conscious of
the road or the route

and hoped I could stay
in control long enough

to get us home safely.

Sometimes when we racing to
get away from each other,

we'd hit a traffic jam and
then be stuck together,

sullen and fuming,
for an extra hour.

Sometimes it got so scary

that we'd have to
pull into a rest stop

to try and reach a
truce before moving on.

We'd sit there in
the parking lot,

with the windows
rolled up for privacy,

and the sun baking down.

As I watched other people
get out of their cars

and walk slowly
towards the bathroom,

I wondered if they
fought like we did

and I wondered how
they survived it.

As time went on,

the car seemed to
collect and hold onto

the spirit of those fights

in much the same way that
the browsn cloth seats

eventually became suffused

with the ugly smell of smoke

from all the
cigarettes we consumed.

(blues piano)

* Don't play that song for me

* 'Cause it brings back memories

* Of days that I once knew

* The days that I spent with you

* Oh no, don't let
em play it, oh no

* It fills my heart
with pain, it hurts

* Please, stop it right away

* 'Cause I remember
just what he said

* He said darlin', darlin'

When we finally
broke up, or rather

when we broke up
for the final time,

she offered to continue
sharing the car with me.

I had a partial claim to it

because of the
money I'd invested

but maybe there was also some
hope that by sharing the car,

we'd continue to share some
part of our lives together.

After all, we'd have
to call each other up

to make arrangements.

And that could lead to
further conversation.

I don't know if she wanted
that, but I guess I did.

Beyond what we might talk about,

I loved her voice and I
couldn't bear to think

I would never hear it again.

For several months
we did our best.

She would often go
out of town on a job

and I would keep the
car during her absence.

Right before she came back,
I'd park it near her house

and leave a message
about where it was.

As soon as she had
plans to go away again

she'd call to make
new arrangements.

During all of this,
we both made an effort

to be considerate and discreet.

But whenever I got
the car from her

I couldn't stop wondering
where it might have been.

She had a tendency
to leave the radio on

and when I started the engine

I was often greeted
by a burst of music.

I would listen for a while
to the station she'd chosen

and imagine her, alone
in the afternoon,

running a few errands

or late at night with
a woman beside her

as she drove home
over the bridge

steering with one hand
while she lit a cigarette

with the other.

In fact, there was never
a trace left of her

besides an empty coffee cup,
a stub from a parking lot,

or the random radio station.

In turn I never left
anything of myself behind,

except for a few last
unspoken words on old subject.

Three months before we broke up,

after 19 years of smoking
at least one pack a day,

I went cold turkey.

She had also tried to stop
once a few years earlier

but then decided that
she didn't want to quit.

Despite our separation,

I still worried a
lot about her health.

So whenever I got
the car from her,

I would empty the
ashtray and then drive,

even in the coldest weather,
with the windows wide open.

By the time she got it back,

the car smelled sweet
and clean again.

I hoped this might have
a magical effect on her

but as far as I know, my
scheme was a complete failure.

I still needed the car

and still yearned for
some contact with her,

but finally I had to admit
that it was too painful.

I left town on a
three-week business trip

and used that break as
the excuse not to call her

when I got back.

I don't know how she
interpreted my silence.

But she also withdrew.

Many months have now
passed since the last time

I returned the car to her.

Since the last time
I heard her voice.

* I made my reservation,
I'm leaving town tomorrow

* I'll find somebody new and
there'll be no more sorrow

* That's what I say each time,
but I can't follow through

* I can't break away,
though you make me cry

* I can't break away,
I can't say goodbye

* I'll never never break away
from you, no, no, no, no no *

The first time I
laid eyes on the car,

I was disappointed
by its homeliness

but consoled by the
thought that it was unique.

At least no one I
knew, besides her,

had ever owned, or wanted
to own, such a car.

Consequently, I was
surprised to find

that there were many
thousands of them

on the streets of New York.

Almost overnight,

I went from barely
noticing their existence

to realizing that
I lived in a world

swarming with station wagons.

By becoming an owner of one,

she seemed to have been
initiated into a special clan,

and by sharing the car with her

I felt I had become
an honorary member

of that same family.

The streets are still full of
them, and one of them is hers.

I never know when it will happen
that she'll drive past me.

Maybe she'll be
heading to the beach

with her new girlfriend.

Maybe she'll be slogging
home from a hard day's work.

Maybe she'll just be
going to the store,

for the paper and some milk.

And then again, maybe we'll
be stuck beside each other

for half an hour,
she in her car,

and I in the one I sometimes
borrow from my cousin,

as we crawl slowly
over the bridge

in the morning traffic jam.

If that happens, I'll
pretend I haven't seen her.

If that happens, I'll start
crying uncontrollably.

If that happens,

I'll keep glancing over to
see as much of her as I can.

If that happens, I'll
wave and smile politely

and then curse her out
from behind closed windows.

* Why'd ya do it, she said,
why'd you do what you did

* Why'd ya do it, she said,
why'd you do what you did

* Why'd ya do it, she said,
why'd ya do it, she said,

* Why'd you do what you did?

* Why'd you do it, she said,
why'd you do what you did? *

So I try not to look for them,
those 1983 Oldsmobile wagons,

but they're everywhere.

When I see one
driving towards me,

or just parked down the block,

I'm like an animal
frozen in its tracks

by a sudden noise
or a bright light,

and I stay that way
until I've figured out

whether it's a false
alarm or the real thing.

Sometimes as one approaches,
the sun is in my eyes,

and I can't tell what
color or model it is.

My heart constricts,
my skin starts to crawl

and then as the car passes by
I discover that it's pale blue

or mustard yellow
or a dull green.

But there are still
a lot of beige ones

ready to surprise
me at every turn.

If it's close enough,

I look immediately
at the license plate

since that's not as scary
as looking at the driver.

* I say the past is the past
and it no longer matters.

* I made my mind up

* I can make it, I'll be fine

* Even if I gotta fake it.

* I'll keep surviving.

* Another night, without you.

* Another night, I
know I can get through.

* Another night, it's only

* Another night, I
won't be lonely *

I used to think that owning
a car was too expensive

too risky, too aggravating,
and un-ecological.

Now I'm seriously considering
buying one for myself.

I've grown resentful of the
long trips home on the subway

and prefer speeding over
the bridge late at night

when the lights of the city

are all that define the shape
of the dark river below.

If I do get one, I'll probably
treat it more carefully

than I would have
before sharing hers.

I still don't know much
about car maintenance,

but at least she
knew enough to insist

that I checked the oil and water

every time that I
stopped for gas.

I promised her I would do it,

and I tried my best to remember,

but it took a long time
before I got into the habit.

However, despite my negligence
and its relative old age,

the car ran like a dream,

and seemed destine for
a long and happy life.

I liked to imagine myself

driving it many years from
now when it had become

one of the old and
familiar things in my life,

a part of my small
and precious universe

of close friends favorite
objects, and her.

* So then you say to
yourself, Self, is it worth it

* Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah no

* Cause it's been ten long years

* This is the situation
that I'm talkin' about

* Ten long years and
if you don't know me

* I'm not gonna try to
prove myself no more

* You'll never,
never, never know me

* You'll go on, you'll go on
and find yourself, someone else

* If you don't know me by now

* Because if you think
you're lonely now

* Wait until tonight comes

* Because I'll be somewhere,
somewhere, somewhere

* 'Cause I ain't gonna

* I ain't gonna stop and
try to prove myself to you *

I won't be driving
that car anymore.

But surely there are
others to be had.

Lately I've been trying
to acquaint myself

with the territory

and I'm finding it
difficult to figure out

what makes one car lovable
and another one a heartache.

I began by looking
through the classified ads

in the local paper.

The selection was overwhelming

but one item immediately
caught my eye.

It was a yellow station
wagon, a 1980 Plymouth Fury.

When I called the owner, she
said it was in mint condition

and offered me a better
price than the one listed.

I made a plan to go and see it,

but the next day I called back

and cancelled the appointment.

Now, I circle the ads
for little red sedans

or dark blue Jeeps or big
green convertibles instead.

Sometimes I contemplate
getting a motorcycle

and I've even
developed a fondness

for a bright pink Vespa
that's parked on my block.

I hope I'll stop myself
from getting a Vespa,

they look like fun,
but they're so silly.

What I need is
something big enough

so I can take a few friends

on trips to the
beach or the country,

but small enough so I don't feel

like the rest of the family is
missing when I'm in it alone.

- [Voiceover] A little bit of
art and soff-a-jeer, ladies.

(wedding march plays on organ)

(wordless vocalizing)

(R and B music)

* Ooh woah

* If I was your girlfriend,
would you remember

(static)

* Your heart, now this home we
have built is still standing

* Its foundation
is on solid ground

* Do we roll up our
sleeves and repent it

* Or burn it down

* And I keep waiting
for you to forgive me

* And you keep saying
you can't even start

* And I feel like a stone
you have picked up and thrown

* To the hard rock
bottom of your heart

* To the hard rock
bottom of your heart

* We can't just block it
out, we've got to talk it out

* Until our hearts
get back in touch

* I need your love I miss
it I can't go on like this

* It hurts too much

* And I keep waiting
for you to forgive me

* And you keep saying
you can't even start

* And I feel like a stone
you have picked up and thrown

* To the hard rock
bottom of your heart

* To the hard rock
bottom of your heart

* To the hard rock
bottom of your heart

* To the hard rock
bottom of your heart

* Ooh