The wild one

A street car made of fire

by Leslie Robarge

LUNARBURN makes people stop, stare, send nasty e-mail, and even flash the driver.

When I ask Judith De Jong if she drives her husband Eric Stephenson's '86 Mazda truck, she lets out a sigh that sounds like a laugh.

"It's more attention than I'm comfortable to deal with by myself," she says.

Fair enough. If you live near the Market Basket grocery store just outside Union Square in Somerville, chances are you've seen the truck that Stephenson, who recently moved here from Houston, Texas, painted and named Lunarburn. It's hard to miss. For one thing, it's the only truck parked on Somerville Avenue that's got red, orange, and yellow flames painted over and around a base coat of blue. Moon craters the size of compact discs blemish the side doors and hood. And it's definitely the only truck around with wire flames painted orange sprouting from the roof and arching gracefully over the cab and down its sides.

Lunarburn is an "art car." Taking inspiration from the hippie vans and low riders that clogged California's streets in the 1970s, the phenomenon of turning your car into a piece of art has flourished out West -- where the dry climate helps preserve the auto body. An art-car parade in Houston, held every year since 1986, attracts an average of 250 cars and kicks off a weekend's worth of community events and parties. Stephenson watched one year and decided to join in.

And unlike his wife, Stephenson loves the attention he receives from his truck. In Houston, he says, the traffic was "worse than an accident" whenever he and some of his art-car buddies took to the highway. People just stopped and stared. Stephenson says that drivers were always pulling up and switching lanes around him to record Lunarburn on video. Seeing a camera flash in the car next to him while driving at night was nothing unusual.

He adds that sometimes in Houston, women even flashed him.

But that was Houston. Here in Boston, things are a little more buttoned-up. When Stephenson and I take a drive in his car, people just stare, so much so that we're able to get a jump on traffic when the light changes. Which is very Boston. After a while, though, it feels a little bit like being naked in a dream. Everyone stares. As we drive down Newbury Street, pedestrians do double takes. Skateboarders howl. One woman mouths, "Holy shit." But she doesn't flash us.

Stephenson says he was surprised to find when he moved to Boston that there are really no art cars in the area. (But really, why spend weeks transforming an old pick-up into a work of art if one winter of salt is going to ruin the paint job?) It's a little depressing for a guy who used to make a social life out of helping people build their cars, and, in the process, drink beer with them too.

"I think it has been deemed my purpose to generate a little of that energy around here," he says casually.

Chances are, he'll succeed. Stephenson has patiently weathered misunderstandings about his car. He recalls an unpleasant incident in Houston involving his car, a comet, and a T-shirt emblazoned with the word SUICIDE that led a group of people to believe he was a cult member (don't ask). He also says he has received some negative e-mail about the truck in Somerville. But this does not faze him. A couple of months ago, Stephenson took a trip back to Houston. Riding around in a rental reinforced his steadfast resolution never to drive a normal-looking car again.

"It was so boring. All the time I was thinking, `Why aren't people looking at me?' " he says.