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won’t do. I hope you don’t think us unreasonable, but for insurance purposes we simply must know these things in advance.”
    â€œOf course. I promise you this. We shall bring an actual German Police Car.”
    â€œAnd we”—she chuckled with her first hint of levity—“look forward to seeing it.”
    JANUARY 2000
    â€œI hate BMWs,” said my father.
    His Cadillac had broken down again; repairs would take weeks. My 1996 Audi A4 had just been struck, for the second time in three years, by a New York City taxi. I’d traded it in and bought the vaunted Audi S4, the twin-turbocharged version of their small sedan. My father hated it, but it was the only way—barring taxis—to get him to the hospital for his treatments.
    Car shopping was the only time we spent together outside the office and hospital. We had a ritual—I suggested cars, he rejected them. I took him to dealerships, he asked to leave. I took him home, he lectured on long-discontinued cars superior to everything we’d seen.
    â€œWhat about a nice 740?” I asked. “Paul’s parents have had one for six years. They love it.”
    â€œToo small. I can fit four people in the back of the Cadillac.”
    â€œThen get the iL model,” I said, “You know, the long-wheelbase version.”
    â€œBut it’s rear-wheel drive. It’s got that big hump in the center of the backseat.”
    â€œI don’t think it has the hump anymore.”
    â€œThey’re overpriced,” said my father. “And,” he said, “the ride is terrible.”
    â€œ Car and Driver said it was very comfortable.”
    â€œThey wouldn’t say that if they’d compared it to my Cadillac.”
    I didn’t even bother suggesting a new Cadillac. Everyone knew they were truly terrible at that time.
    â€œI guess,” I said, “you wouldn’t consider a big Audi.”
    â€œOverpriced. And the ride is terrible, like your S4.”
    â€œThat’s ridiculous.”
    I had to prop him up against the lobby wall as we waited for a taxi. The doormen who’d known us for two decades looked on quietly. They knew better than to offer him help.
    We rode in silence to the Mercedes dealer on Fifth Avenue, where, despite my support, he nearly fell onto the sidewalk.
    Together we inched through the revolving doors, then shuffled toward a gorgeous black S-class. I helped him into the driver’s seat.
    â€œAwesome,” I said.
    â€œTerrible. Look at this interior,” he said. “I remember my 450 SEL 6.9. I think it was a ’79. You should have seen the interior. You could take a flamethrower to the dash, like we used in the war. Not a scratch. If Mercedes had been in charge of building those pillboxes—”
    â€œI remember,” I said, “you told me.”
    â€œLook!” he said, fingering the plastic buttons. “Terrible.”
    â€œLet’s head over to Audi. It’s only a block from Lexus, just off the West Side Highway.”
    â€œI hate the West Side Highway.”
    â€œToo hard to get a cab?” I said.
    â€œNo, I just hate it.”
    Â 
    A salesman helped us through the front door, and I hoped this would warm my father to the BMW 7-series on display right inside the entrance. I could see in the salesman’s eyes the struggle to overlook my father’s disheveled appearance. My father was way past caring about fashion. Today he wore his favorite pants, just as he had yesterday, still paint-splattered from the last remaining hobby he had patience or energy for.
    He sat in the driver’s seat. “It feels like a Messerschmitt.” Messerschmitt was one of the primary manufacturers of Luftwaffe fighters during the Second World War. “It’s too German.”
    â€œBut built like a tank,” I said, regretting it immediately.
    â€œBut not as good as my 6.9.”
    â€œC’mon,” I said.