A Jamaican Experience: Four BMWs and a Benz: A Love Story with Steel and Soul

Four BMWs and a Benz: A Love Story with Steel and Soul

I bought my first BMW in 1972. It was a 2002 series—sleek, purposeful, and alive beneath my hands. It wasn’t just a car; it was freedom. On the back roads of Long Island, I’d cruise with the windows down, the wind tangling my hair, flashing my headlights whenever another BMW passed in the opposite direction. It was like we were part of a secret club.

But for me, it was more than the thrill of German engineering or the hum of the twin-carb engine. Maybe it was because BMW—Bob Marley and the Wailers—was scrawled across my island heart. They were my heroes; music, roots, and driving that car felt like carrying home with me, even on cold New York nights.

And yet, there was something else. Something I couldn’t name. A shadow that followed every BMW I owned.

The first came in 1973. I was young, married, and in graduate school at Stony Brook. Lennette, my wife at the time, and I had driven to the Bronx to visit my best friend, Ronnie. After dinner, we headed back to Long Island. It was raining hard—one of those New York nights where everything gleams wet and slick. As we tried to back off a flooded parkway entrance, another car came out of nowhere and slammed into my pristine 2002. I was furious. I jumped out of my car to confront the driver.

And then, I saw them. Two men, climbing into my car like they owned it. They were about to steal it right there in front of me. I screamed, sprinting back uphill toward them. They scrambled away, muttering something I couldn’t understand. But the night wasn’t done with me yet. The drunk driver who had rammed me earlier? His car began rolling downhill—with his wife inside, screaming for her life—until three men from a nearby gas station managed to stop it. It was the first time I thought, Maybe this car is cursed.

I lost that BMW in my divorce. One day, while teaching at Rockland Country Day School, a student handed me a pair of pants. “Your wife said to give you this,” he said. That was the last time I saw the car that had carried so much of me. It was an excruciating separation—from the woman and the machine that had become an extension of my freedom. And there I was, stranded in an area where public transportation barely existed.

Years passed. I worked hard, built a life, and found my way to IBM. It was then, in 1984, that I flew to Frankfurt to buy my next BMW: a brand new 325, the modern successor to my long-lost 2002. The love came back quickly. I fell for that car the moment I laid eyes on it. It felt like coming home.

But home never stays safe for long.

By 1987, I was married again, to Berkeley this time. One afternoon, she came to pick me up near 23rd Street on Broadway. She ran out to find me… but left the keys in the ignition. When we returned, the car was gone—gone—just like that. Another BMW disappeared from my life.

But I wasn’t ready to give up. I bought another 325, refusing to believe I was cursed. We were living in Whittier, California, then. One day, Berkeley came home shaken. “Baron,” she said, “I had a little accident. I told the man you’d give him money to fix his car.”

“Why would you say that?” I asked. “That’s what insurance is for.”

And then the phone rang.

“Where’s my money?” the man barked down the line. I stayed calm and told him the insurance would handle it. But he wasn’t hearing it. His voice turned into a snarl. “YOU BETTER NOT SLEEP TONIGHT.”

I hung up and called the police. They told me to wait and call back if he harassed me again. We figured he was bluffing.

Later that night, I went to pick up my son from a party, leaving Berkeley and my young daughter at home. My middle son came with me. We weren’t gone long.

As I turned onto my street, I saw sirens flashing, red lights bouncing off every house, and my neighbors crowding the sidewalk. Before I could park, my next-door neighbor ran up to me. “Your wife and daughter are safe,” she said breathlessly. “But… your BMW. It’s gone. It blew up.”

The car had been bombed.

The police towed the wreck away. After that, I bought my fourth BMW. Maybe I still believed the story could end differently. Perhaps I still thought I could overcome the curse.

Berkeley totaled that one in an accident.

Four BMWs—four disasters—and I finally surrendered. I gave up BMWs and turned instead to Mercedes-Benz. Stability, class, peace—I never had another problem.

And yet… life has a way of teasing you.

Lately, I’ve found myself drawn to Mini Coopers. Smaller. Friendlier. Practical. But still BMW, underneath it all. And now, I’m buying a Mini Countryman—maybe trying to rewrite the story. Or maybe trying to find closure. After all, we don’t always get to choose what calls to us. Sometimes, the road chooses you.

This time, I’m driving alone. No distractions. No drama. Just me, the wheel, and the hum of something that’s always been a part of me.