something I wrote a while ago: Cars.

For the last couple of years I’ve had problems with cars. Granted, they haven’t been amazing vehicles in the first place. One might even say I got what I deserved, or perhaps paid for. Nevertheless, the automobile has proven to be my personal nemesis. I am incredibly well intentioned when it comes to such things- the inanimate object in general. Though, I suppose, this is the exact opposite of what a car actually is, one expects it to be anything but stationary. I always mean to look after my vehicle meticulously, and have it never fail me. In actuality, it usually looks like a used bookstore threw up into the backseat, and I’m shelling out several hundred dollars every other month or so for a new hose or parambulator or gatlin converter or whatever.
Initially, I had an old Plymouth when I started driving. It had been my mother’s car, and then she got a van I think, and I got hers. The oil pressure used to bottom out when I took long, sharp right turns (such as getting off the interstate). Eventually it self destructed in a shattering rattle-fest of broken cylinder caps or something. This was after the infamous timing-belt incident of 1999. I then inherited a red Neon made in the ’95-’96 era, zippy and compact, just like I love in a car. I got my first ticket in this vehicle, and then my second and third. The accident would come later, with Al- but I am getting ahead of myself.
In my junior year of college, the Neon started getting creepy. I mean, Creepy McCreepster creepy. The initial problem was with the driver’s side door/window. What happened was that the window started being tricky to roll up; then, one day, it simply fell down into the door. Goodbye, Mr. Window. This is ok, because I went to a conservative little college in a conservative little town in the middle of Indiana. Nobody locks anything there anyway. Also, I reasoned, if it rained in the car, it would be very easy for it also to evaporate this way. About this time the car took on an odor that could most closely be compared to the boys’ dormitory. Mixed with dead things.
The door also stopped working entirely very shortly thereafter, and the entire plastic/vinyl/fabric inner lining of the door, with the handle, etc. somewhat fell off. By somewhat, I mostly mean entirely, but certain things like the window crank prevented it from completely leaving it’s steel innards behind. I started noticing a clicking noise about this time, but ignored it. Getting into the little car proved to be the most enjoyable part of the entire escapade- one simply ran at the window, and jumped in, feet first, Dukes of Hazzard style. It was low enough to the ground that it might be described as a similar height of low hurdles in track and field. The only difference with this comparison is that when running low hurdles, you’re not actually jumping into the small, broken hole of a rancid eight-year-old economy car. Let us not, however, be bothered with these details.
And now, back to the clicking. We finally figured out what it was, me and my posse, driving around after dark one evening. I’m sure we were going to Crazy D’s, there is nothing else you would be doing after dark in Indiana but driving 15 miles to the truckstop on the interstate, which served terrible coffee and breakfast any time of day. Breakfast with entirely too many items for it to be under six dollars, but it was. The clicking was my dome light, and it flicked on and off uncontrollably, like a bizarre strobe light deciding to throw a rave in the backseat of my decrepit automobile. There was no way you could control the light show, either- an effort to either turn on the dome, or turn it off, was met with the same disastrous result. And it was intermittent, with no predictable “beat” like a regular strobe would have. It scoffed at the bass thumps of my Jackson 5 cassette, it likewise sneered at my Ben Folds.
In the midst of all this I found myself wishing to be a cow on the side of the road, or perhaps a person. I would see a car, going about 70 miles an hour down a country road, full of giddy, laughing college girls with somewhat crappy, decade old music filtering out through at least one open window (the driver’s side, remember?). And the dome light would be blinking. This was funny to me, more funny than the light blinking in the first place, more funny than the fact that I drove a piece of trash. But just funny to be a cow, eating or something, maybe sleeping or shitting large patties in a field, and look up and see this little blinking thing. Would the cow think I was a ghost? I secretly hoped so, but I knew I would never find out.
At the end of my junior year, also known as the year from hell, I got Al. Al was a silver Escort station wagon, made in 1993. Al was delightful. Thirty miles to the gallon, he was capable of hauling a PA and numerous instruments, or perhaps six of your closest friends, or perhaps most of your wardrobe and recent trash. He had a CD player. He had a roof rack. I bought a sheepskin steering wheel cover, and I knew I was set. This would be the car that took me places. Things would start happening to me now, in this car. This was it.
Things went well with Al for a few months, until about mid-summer. On the way back from a cross-country road trip, heavily loaded with skis and powered amps and many pairs of shoes, Al broke a little. It was very hot, perhaps 106, and we were on the border of Kansas and Colorado, in an appropriately named town of Kanorado. Seriously, somebody needs to win the Nobel Prize for that one. But what happened was that the air conditioning broke. It sort of exploded. I was on my way to the Kansas Visitor’s Center (HOT COFFEE! The sign advertised. Whoo… wasn’t that just what I wanted in this ultra-cool climate.) and was about 10 feet from the door when I heard a familiar sound. At least, I thought it was a familiar sound; it sounded like when semi-truck drivers let air out of their tires. Only it was Al, punching himself in the air-conditioning. The sound was closely followed by a scream- the alarmed sound my traveling companion made to alert me to the disaster. I made my way back to the car, steam/smoke/I wasn’t sure what was billowing out from under the hood.
“Pop the hood, willya?” I called. It popped, obediently. I made sounds like “hmmm….” and “well….” while I looked around under there, not for the life of me knowing what anything was or how it worked in conjunction with anything else. I knew what conjunctions were, though.
“It looks fine,” I said, lowering the hood again and latching it authoritatively. I wiped my hands together for good measure. Mechanics have dirty hands. I then sauntered back up to the welcome center, knowing this would be the only air conditioning I would see for a while. The next several hundred miles were spent with the windows down, the both of us in bathing suits and track shorts, leaning together over the console to keep our outside arms from getting fried in the sun. We doused ourselves with water, and sweat ran between our shoulders at a constant trickle.

I had my first and only accident in Al. Sure, I think I got a couple of more speeding tickets in him, perhaps, but I ran a red light right in the middle of my college town and broadsided this guy. Just plain as day, he was making the turn and I didn’t stop. I had a friend and one of my professors’ kids in the back seat. My friend and the six-year-old girl had been talking, the kid was getting ready to eat a cookie. We were babysitting and taking her to see a play at the college after some sandwiches downtown at the park. And I was paying attention to them, and smacked this rusty, compact pickup truck from the early eighties right in the kisser. Or what happened was it looked like I punched his lights out, and he’d gotten Al in the mush. The truck had been sort of a deep red/maroon color, and the only damage to Al at all was a long, reddish streak the pretty much covered the front bumper. For the rest of Al’s happy life, he would be in drag.
Al’s final issue was the breaks- both literally and figuratively. By the time that I figured out the “BRAKES” warning light wasn’t just a computer malfunction, but actually indicated there was a problem with my breaking system, it was far too late to repair it for any sensible cost. Really. They should make lights that let you know if you should pay attention to the actual warning lights. How many people do I know that have “check engine soon” lights that don’t mean anything? Let’s just say a lot. Oh, it’s just a computer chip, they always say. This alarms me initially, then simply numbs me to any vehicular problems altogether. Oh, it’s just a computer chip, I decide, looking at the dashboard anytime something new turns on. I don’t need to pay some mechanic two hundred bucks to tell me this when I can just say it for free. The problem was, my brakes were really bad. And I mean really bad.
“Nine hundred bucks?” I said to the hapless repairman, at the Brake Stop in the west Highlands in Denver. “For Al?” I jerked my thumb over my shoulder, where the proud king of the road sat high up in the air, suffering the indignity of having his pipery looked at by everyone. He nodded.
“Your master brake cylinder is blown, I imagine you’ll lose your front brakes any day now,” he replied, helpfully. He pushed his cap back on his head. “You’ve already lost your rear brakes… that may explain the fishtailing you’re seeing out there on the interstate when you try to brake at high speeds.” I nodded knowingly. He turned and looked at my friend. “She,” he said, pointing at me, “is a brave woman.” I turned around and looked at Al. He looked so vulnerable. He needed me, he needed my protection. I sighed.
“You don’t happen to be in the military, do you?” the mechanic asked, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. Though I briefly debated explaining the virtues of pacifism to him, I realized that that was neither the time nor the place. I shook my head no, slumped my shoulders forward, and told them to bring the champ down. Against the mechanic’s strong recommendation, I drove the old boy away, back to the cramped basement apartment where my friend lived, and I was visiting. I cleaned Al out, somberly filling a garbage bag with vehicular incidentals, and a very stale cookie I found under the driver’s seat. Kid probably never even realized she didn’t eat it. Then I went in the apartment, picked up a newspaper and started skimming, until I found something that looked promising- and thus, I found the Troops.

I remember thinking as the garage door opened at this guy’s house how big the Troops was. Huge. This huge, white box, sitting there patiently on large truck off roading tires, just waiting for me to come along and buy it. I didn’t need a truck. I needed my Al back, I thought mournfully. Prudence stepped in, however, and reminded me that brakes are important, and as much as I loved Al, we were going to have issues if he couldn’t stop. I got in the Isuzu Trooper, which was covered in minor, cosmetic dings and sported a major crack in the windshield. I liked the Troops immediately. I took these blemishes to be marks of character, badges of honor- certainly not drawbacks. Also, I wouldn’t worry about one of my drunk friends running it into something and ruining it when I loaned it out, as I was sure I would. I perpetually have the type of friends that need cars.
Also, it got horrible gas mileage, was hard to parallel park, and weighed a frigging ton. There would be no heroic adrenaline-pumped moments for me, holding my car up while trained bears pulled a flaming baby from underneath my back tire. I would just stand there and watch the little faggot die.
“I’ll take it,” I told the man selling it, “for friends,” that I instantly felt shady about. I signed my title over to him for Al, letting him junk the mightiest of mighty warriors for me. I gave the old boy a loving pat on the rump, and sniffled a bit, trying not to look to odd in front of Shady Central in the driveway, who was holding my old set of keys and looking disinterested. Neither of us were good actors. I then got in the Troops and pulled away, riding high and in style. For only three thousand dollars, I was now the proud owner of an SUV. Now all I needed was road rage, a caramel macchiato, and a cell phone glued to my ear, and I would be the average American driver. My palms itched with anticipation.