Drive Theory

The fuel tank is like the libido, the accelerator the ego, and the superego the brakes. The carburetor, which essentially turns fuel into energy, might pass for sublimation. This is the essence of what is known as drive theory, both in automotive repair and psychoanalysis. Looked at more globally, the car is the body and the driver is the brain. Using these analogies, what can we say about the Gulf oil spill, about the fact that the biggest market for American cars may be China, about the fact that a car that once had a sterling reputation for dependability—the Toyota—turned out to be the equivalent of a mad rapist, with its accelerator pedal stuck to the floor? And what about Chevrolet, which refuses to be called Chevy? Does that remind you of a girl in college named Frances who spent a semester abroad and came back as Françoise. And what about the hybrids, which reduce fuel consumption by relying on electricity, the way men get their charge from Viagra? And what about cruise control? Where does that fit into the picture? And what is the significance of the popular radio show Car Talk, which is today’s Dr. Ruth? People used to want to hear about orgasm and erection and now they’d rather talk about spark plugs and miles-per-gallon. The car has lost its fins; there are no eccentric old Edsels, De Sotos, or god-like old Mercuries parked at the drive-in. The Saturn retains a mythological name, but lacks mystique, and the DeLorean went back to the future. The Escalade has replaced the old Caddy, and yet, when it comes down to it, there’s still nothing to compete with a new set of wheels.

Escalation

The Cadillac Escalade is what the Mercedes was in another era. It’s become the car of choice amongst the same conspicuous consumers who once made the Lincoln Town Car, the Cadillac Seville, the Beemer and the Mercedes 450 symbols of a certain kind of status. Accumulate a certain level of wealth and you can own or lease an Escalade, and when you have an Escalade and a driver you are perceived as having arrived. Ownership of the Escalade doesn’t indicate you are a Warren Buffet, a Bill Gates or one of the mysterious hedge-fund types like Steven Cohen, but it serves as a kind of Maginot line. It’s not that you have one that’s important, but rather what it means when you don’t. There are other status symbols that are commonly flaunted—the black American express card and the Rolex watch—but the Escalade has become ubiquitous in the murky area that we call upper-class life, because the owner of an Escalade may be anywhere from modestly to vastly wealthy, and the vast disparities of wealth in modern American society are such that the difference can be fairly dramatic. But, as an item, what does the Escalade tell us about the times in which we live? The Mercedes was an object of great luxury that provided all kinds of creature comforts out of the reach to the owner of, say, a Ford Falcon. But the Escalade has none of the sexiness of a Beemer, the car that Pierce Brosnan drove in Golden Eye. Most luxury Escalades are black, like the classic Mercedes sedan with its black-suited driver, but the Escalade is far less svelte. It’s workmanlike. In some ways, it looks like a station wagon or a van, and until Escalades became status symbols, one didn’t even note that they were Caddies, so different were they from the famed tail-finned objects of the fifties and sixties. Owners of Escalades want to be in the club that will have them as a member; at the same time the club has changed from heathens who flaunt their wealth to being composed of the entitled whose accumulation is the result of hard work. Escalade owners seek safety (the vehicles are built like tanks), security and a certain anonymity that reflects society’s current ambivalence towards those who have money.