Heaven is a Volvo

“Dane Reynolds just bought a Volvo. Used.” Surfing Magazine editor Travis Ferre tells me this over the phone while pushing his 1986 Pontiac Fiero hard on the PCH between Dana Point and Laguna Beach. I can hear its throaty engine roar. His is a two-door fastback. 2.5 liters. five-speed Getrag 282 manual. After-market windshield wipers. After-market rims. It’s what happens when someone has style.
And I become so upset that I slam my intolerably cheap cellular next to my third caipirinha. The battery disconnects and slides across the Cha Cha Lounge bar. A barback glares. Mine is a Boost Mobile Motorola i290 pay as I go. It’s what happens when gypsies steal Blackberries and run up bills.
Dane. Volvo. Why? The child is rich. The child is fabulous. Why must he settle for a car that vegetarians love? Why must he put safety first?
I reconnect my battery, check my balance, and call him.
“Why are you scared of BMW? I hear you just got an older Volvo. Why not a styley Lotus? Or a vintage Ferrari? Or an Austin-Healey bug eye Sprite? There are so many great cars! Volvo ain’t one.”
Dane chuckles, as is his want. “The Volvo? I hate car as a status symbol. Yeah you make money? Great. Nice Mercedes! I went and sat in a few Toyotas and Saturns or whatever but they feel like plastic. I liked the idea of buying a car that already existed. I don’t want to support the car industry. I looked through the classifieds, wanted a Honda, but this Volvo came up. Low miles. Bought it.”
“Honda?” I think to myself but continue “I get it, about many new cars being shit. BUT what about a hot mid 80s DeLorean? John DeLorean, founder, smuggled cocaine into the country in his cars and then the company went out of business. DMC was good enough for Michael J. Fox (pre- Parkinson’s).”
Dane pauses. Doesn’t care. “Yeah” he responds.

“What do you go for, in terms of status symbols?” I ask. “Chains made of gold with two carat diamonds” he answers.
“Well what if Stab commissioned a very sinuously sexy thick snake chain (in 14k gold) with a lobster claw clasp?” I ask. “With lots of diamonds? Would you wear it for every heat you surfed? You’d look like a rad cricketer from India (or Pakistan).”
He laughs. “Hahahahahaha. Or Ryan Sheckler. maybe I could do a double pits to chesty.”
“Getting back to your car,” I say, “Would you send me a picture?”
“Sure, I’ll go take one” he tells me. “There is some sort of farmer’s market by my house. Sucks. I wish the U.S. knew that we are in a post-agricultural era.”
Later, after an unfortunate evening spent at downtown LA’s Bordello, I open my inbox and see it.
Candy red, slammed to the ground with 22-inch low profile tires. Mag rims. The roof chopped to a totally illegal 12 inches. White leather interior.
I know it is not Dane’s car. I know his is probably a mid-90s square. Cracked interiors etc. Smelling of family etc. But I am so pleased with the photo. It shows joie de vivre. It shows notre grand amour est non mort .
Kanye West raps, with vigor, on Jay-Z’s Run This Town (feat. Rihanna), “It’s crazy how you can go from being Joe Blow to everybody on your dick, no homo. I bought my whole family whips, no Volvos. Next time I’m in church please no photos.”
Kanye has no idea what he is talking about these days, but Dane Reynolds does. Does he ever! – Chas Smith.