For the second time in as many months, one of my sisters has been given a free automobile without having earned it. One was given a 2002 Mitsubishi Spider Eclipse because her Buick wasn’t her “style,” and it was recently brought to my attention that my other sister is going to be receiving a brand new Mini Cooper, which she claims is “one of the safest cars out there” because it has five airbags (hilarious comment from an anonymous friend: “Vans have SEVEN airbags. Get one of those.”). This incites a certain degree of rage in my wounded heart because my brother and I worked long summers saving our money and making sacrifices to buy “affordable” (in other words, “ungood”) cars to get us from point A to point B, while my sisters have been rewarded for working considerably more part-time employment and for having much poorer spending habits. I obviously could be happier about the situation, but there’s really not much I can do about it. I mean, I’m no longer a student; I work full-time and make plenty of money to support my own vehicle of choice. I probably shouldn’t be giving too much attention to what my sisters are doing. Good for them. They’ve got nice cars that they didn’t pay for.
That little rant aside, this whole car ordeal has conjured up memories of my earlier days as a driver and all of the automobiles I’ve driven over the years. As the oldest child, I was not given a car to drive when I turned sixteen, so I had to borrow either my dad’s Toyota Camry or my ma’s Plymouth minivan. Tucking your pant legs into your socks, bringing a Rainbow Brite lunch pail and thermos to a high school cafeteria, and listening to Clay Aiken records are about the only things that trump driving your mother’s minivan on the Dorky-ness Scale. I’ve even gone on DATES driving that thing. Try getting to first base behind the wheel of a giant blue Greyhound with a 4-cylandar engine and cup holders. Go on! Give it a whack! I’ll ask my ma if you can borrow the keys…
Luckily, I didn’t have to make use of the parents’ rides for too long, because when the twins turned 16, my father knew that the three of us would need a car to share. So, to remedy the situation, my father bought a car from our neighbors across the street for about $1,000, and it was the most extreme car I have ever driven. Imagine the most commanding, physically powerful automobile you have ever seen, and then imagine MY car kicking its ass. It was an old Chevy Caprice Classic, a police squad car (congenially named “CHiPs” after the oldschool cop show) that sported a V-8 and probably weighed about as much as 50 people (equivalent = 7 Warren Sapps). It was like driving a Cadillac with a jet engine. Just starting the car up caused three-day periods of deafness and minor bleeding from the ear. The energy that raced through the veins of that automobile could be felt even at 10mph. It was a growling beast of iron and leather, hungry for petroleum, it’s only source of nourishment, but damn, did it need a LOT of nourishment. There are semi trucks that get better mileage than CHiPs got. We’d get to the gas station on “empty” and have to fill up just to get home with a half a tank left. My dad used to always say, “the good thing about the Caprice is that if it ever gets into an accident with say, a chaotic mass of stampeding wooly mammoths, Caprice still wins.”
Okay, well maybe he didn’t say exactly that, but it would be true. That car was a deity, and in some parts of Senegal, they still worship the rear bumper, offering sacrifices of flowers and small goats. But, eventually we had to get another community car when Jackie got her license as well. Again, my father spent only about $1,000, but no one wins the lottery twice. This time around, we were presented with a small, gray Pontiac sedan. It was the blandest of all cars, and I hated when CHiPs was being used by another sibling and I was forced to drive that pathetic damn thing. When parked side by side, it was like looking at a cockroach next to a panther. Kyle and I hated that car, which is why we weren’t too upset when our sister drove it about 15 yards into a bean field, turning the wheels downwards like the DeLorean in “Back to the Future.” She was fine, but the car was totaled (side note: I had just put $20 worth of gas in the stupid tank. I remember being furious about that). “Good riddance,” we thought.
Perhaps there is no such thing as karma, but to this day, I believe that my wishing hateful things on that Pontiac helped pitch in towards the demise of CHiPs. I was at school, and my brother called me with a tone in his voice like someone died. In a sad sort of way, someone did. The same sister who had wrecked the putrid little grey car had just wrecked the cop car, too. She backed out into another car and it smashed the whole back end of it. It wrecked three panels, and it would’ve cost more to fix the car than it did to purchase it in the first place. I may or may not have cried in my bathrobe for six hours afterwards, stuffing myself with baked goods. Kyle and I held a short memorial service for CHiPs, taking turns sharing the all the good times with the rest of the congregation. It was a good car.
I’m sorry, but I need to excuse myself here for a moment. There’s… something in my eye…
For a while at college, I didn’t need a car at all, and I did pretty well without one. But, eventually the combination of field placement student teaching and a long-distance girlfriend inspired the purchase of my first car. My father and I did our auto shopping, looking all around Kankakee for a fine motor vehicle, and eventually we came across a pretty sharp-looking Chevy Cavalier. At the time, it was only a few years old, and it had working air conditioning and a CD player in it, so I was immediately sold. I got the whole thing for $4,444 (honestly). I totally hustled the dealer. I was all, “I’ll give you no more than 4 grand cash for this car,” and he was all, “ok.” I sure showed that punk who’s boss.
I still drive my Cavalier to this day. It’s a rather unsightly teal color, and I don’t really have any emotional attachment to it. I never even gave it a name, sadly enough. Still, it’s gotten the job done for about three years now, and (knock on wood) I’ve had minimal problems. I’ll probably drive it until, like all the other cars I’ve ever been a part of, it dies from some accident directly or indirectly linked to my sister. It seems like when it comes to automobiles, one of my female siblings is right at the heart of my misery. I love those girls dearly, but when it comes to modes of transportation, they just have a way with things. Maybe I just need to let everything go: the Eclipse, the Mini Cooper, the $20 of wasted gas in the Pontiac, and most importantly, CHiPs. Then again, if everybody just let everything go, there would never be any unhappiness in the world, and really, who wants that?