Let’s put this as diplomatically as possible, shall we?
The mayor misspoke.
When Richard Daley said of cab drivers last week, “They should stop driving the [Crown] Victoria,” adding, “Your price of gasoline is going to keep going up. Everybody knows that. Get rid of the Victoria,” he didn’t know what he was saying.
Yeah, sure, Daley’s point made logical sense. Cab drivers, stung by the god-awful price of gas, are looking for the green light for a fare surcharge. The Ford Crown Victoria can suck up a gallon of gas about as fast as a politician can pocket a wad of cash.
But we’re not talking about logic here.
We’re talking about the Crown Vic.
You know the specs: Rear-wheel drive. Front independent suspension. V8 engine. Favored by cab drivers, cops, private detectives — by anybody who’s got a lot of heavy-duty driving to do. By anybody who might find himself in the middle of a high-speed chase on the wrong side of town. By anybody who might be told by a sweaty, nervous passenger, “Get me to O’Hare and step on it, Bub.” By anybody who has ever been called “Bub.”
Because the Crown Vic, which has been around since the 1950s, is not really a car. It’s an attitude. It’s like shoulder pads on a chassis.
The Crown Vic — and what a perfect moniker that is, what a name born to be muttered out of the side of the mouth, while a Chesterfield juts out of the other side — is more symbol than sedan. It’s dark nights and tight corners. It’s wild rides and impossible missions. It’s getting the bad guys. It’s listening to long stories from the bum in the back seat.
Can you imagine Sam Spade or Harry Bosch driving a Ford Escort, for crying out loud?
If cabbies and cops and gumshoes surrender their Crown Vics, something really essential is going to drain out of the world. Some of the rich, ragged poetry of the urban experience.
The mayor meant well. But politicians come and go.
Crown Vics are always on the job.