A Cavalier Attitude

Somewhere out there is the very last Chevrolet Cavalier -- a tin-can testament to American mediocrity -- that was ever built. Maybe it's in the back of a rental-car lot in Pittsburgh, sitting there like a lost dog in the rain, hoping a little old lady will pick it up and take it home. We just don't know.

This is because when the last one rolled off the line at the General Motors plant in Lordstown, Ohio, in 2005, the good people who'd been paid $18 or $20 an hour to build 5 million of them over the past two decades didn't really care. It came off the line and went off to die at some dealer's lot. It was one of the most mundane cars ever built.

Now, for reasons that defy the Divine Order of the Universe, there is a subculture of guys who adore it. Who create Cavalier Web sites and Cavalier car clubs and Cavalier chat rooms. It's like starting a fan club for a lawn mower.

"A cultural phenomenon," says Edward Loh, a senior editor at Motor Trend.

The Cavvy wasn't even bad enough to be a joke, like the AMC Gremlin, or a kitschy embarrassment, like the Chevette. It was just the cur of the compact rental fleet at the Airport at the End of the Mind, the joyless perk of the junior sales exec, the Motel 6 of the American automobile. By the late 1990s, the company was reportedly losing $1,000 on every one sold.

It was "the car that deservedly got GM in trouble," says Paul A. Eisenstein, publisher of the Car Connection, a popular automotive Web site.

"The drive is memorable because it was the worst we've experienced in recent memory," according to Edmunds, one of the most respected auto analysts, in an online review. Edmunds said the Cavvy was "homely." The engine shook "like a caffeine addict going through withdrawal." And: "Road noise is present at all times." And: "The seats are uncomfortable for any length of time."

Something is going on here, something on the darker edge of American possibility, something scary in the back aisles of AutoZone. Why would teenagers, young men, all in search of hipness, devote themselves to such mediocrity? Surely they are strange young men, which makes them sort of just like us, so we like them right away. We think maybe they are a particular type of American antihero: young men in search of Available Glory. This is a sense of unique identity, of art, of self-expression, that might be found within the bounds of your paycheck.

We happily set out to find them. We called Brian Armstead, co-host of "Autosense," a talk show on XM radio. He covers hip car stuff. We said we're looking for Chevy Cavalier car clubs.

There was a pause.

"Are you messing with me?"

Nope.